


Alternative Steps to Recovery, and Other Things Alcoholics Anonymous Will Never Tell You

by goosepillows



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness, Mutual Pining, Post Robert Ending, Recovery, Slow Burn, and some other shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-05-18 01:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14843150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goosepillows/pseuds/goosepillows
Summary: Recovery is not a linear thing; it takes time, patience, and effort. It is tedious and often thankless. Transformation does not happen instantly, and often one doesn’t realize how much they’ve changed until they look back weeks, months, years, and realize they are no longer the person they were.Recovery is not found in the big moments, but instead, the moments in between-- the mundane, the menial, the simple.The same can be said of life. The same can be said of falling in love.*A collection of the big moments and the moments in between during Robert’s recovery from grief, addiction, and self-destruction, written from the perspective of Dadsona.





	1. Step 1 - (Kind Of) Admitting You (Sort Of) Have A Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Any opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily my own. Nothing I write is meant to speak to an entire experience, but ultimately, I hope this piece is something people can connect to.
> 
> This fic does not update regularly, as adult life is bonkers and keeps me very, very busy. I will update while I can, and hope to have it finished by the end of 2019!
> 
> (For reference, [this](https://imgur.com/a/8aH7J7C) is Walter. He's a Pisces.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert's in a mood, and Walter can tell.

The twelve steps of recovery, according to Alcoholics Anonymous, are outlined as follows:

  1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.
  2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
  3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
  4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
  5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
  6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
  7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
  8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
  9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
  10. Continued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.
  11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
  12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.



Now, given the success of the program, these steps have apparently been effective for many people.

However, Robert Small is not most people. To quote him directly, the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are “a crock of shit reserved for Christians, bored housewives, and people who listen to Styx unironically.”

“...people listen to Styx ironically?” I ask.

“Only the smart people, Walter. Only the smart people.”

This is the most he’s spoken all night. He called me at 1 in the morning. He didn’t say much, save for “You up?”, “Wanna hang?” and “Be ready in five.” So, obviously, something is wrong.

We’re sitting a comfortable distance apart in the bed of his truck, looking at the view of Maple Bay stretched out before us. The air is warm and sweet, and the night sky is completely clear. For the past five minutes, Robert has been staring intently at the stars, saying nothing. He’s acting gruffer than usual; in fact, this may be the gruffest I’ve ever seen him.  I’ve been sneaking glances at him while pretending to do the same. Maybe it’s out of attraction, maybe it’s out of worry, or maybe it’s out of something else entirely, but I can’t stop looking at him. He has a look on his face that I can’t quite place, but it resembles anger. I drop the subject.

It’s been two weeks since the night he broke down in my arms, and one week since he asked if we could just be friends, at least for a while.

“I’m cool with it.” I said. It was the night of the grad party, and everyone had said their goodbyes. Robert was the last to leave. We watched the sun go down until it was gone, then, in a simple gesture, he patted my knee and said, “Time to go.” We embraced, then wordlessly, he left. I stayed sat on the bench for a while, until Amanda came outside to check on me.

Amanda cocked her head and raised an eyebrow as she scooped the leftover mac-n-cheese into a tupperware container. “Dad, you have never been ‘cool’ about anything in your life.”

“I have, too.”

“Really? Name one time you have been ‘cool’.”

I stuttered. “Uh...what about that one time I moshed with Mat and he literally TOLD me to my FACE that he thought I was cool?”

“And how, exactly, did you respond to this compliment?”

“...by running inside and freaking out about it.”

She nodded. “There it is.”

I sighed. “Alright, so I may not be _excited_ or, you know, not _disappointed,_ but...I don’t think he’s in the right place for a relationship right now, and if he needs a friend...well, I’m glad to be that. He’s doing what he has to, and I respect that. In fact, I’m really proud of him.” I paused. “Honestly, I think it’s for the best.”

Amanda looked at me sadly, but I knew that she knew I was right. She sat next to me under the cherry blossom tree and put her head on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, pops.”

“Thanks, Panda.”

 

I shift onto my back and look at the stars, and by look I mean really look, for the first time tonight.

“See that?” I say, pointing up to a row of stars.

“Hm.”

“What does it look like?” I look at him and smile. This is a game Amanda and I used to play.

“It looks like a...uh, I dunno.”

“C’mon.”

He grunts. “It looks like a...knife.”

I smile. “That’s ‘cultellus minor’. Latin for ‘tiny knife’.”

Robert smirks, but it doesn’t stay. He reaches into his pocket and pulls a cigarette out from a pack. I look at him and we briefly make eye contact. His look tells me, “don’t say anything”, so I don’t, and he lights the cigarette. I watch him take a drag and breathe out the smoke. A couple of weeks ago I would have found this display incredibly sexy, but now, it only inspires worry in me. I’ve been avoiding expressing my concern; I think it would only make things worse, and right now, Robert doesn’t need another critic. He’s already got himself. I decide to approach this the same way I would with Amanda; I’ll offer my support, and leave it at that.

I clear my throat. “Robert?”

“Yeah,” He says, still staring at the sky.

“You don’t have to talk, but…” I trail off. He’s looking at me with those eyes and oh god it’s terrifying. Finish the thought, Walter. He needs to hear it. “But. If you want to…I’m here.”

I wait for a response. Robert turns his head and takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I know,” he says, after a moment of silence. I take a deep breath. Was I holding my breath that whole time?

After another pause he says, “Thanks, Walter.”

“Of course.”

From the corner of my eye, I see him look at me. I can tell he’s thinking about saying something. I let him do it in his own time.

“Hey, Walter?”

“What’s up?”

“You really think I’m an alcoholic?”

I look at Robert, who is looking down. I can’t get a read on him, but I assume it’s about what I said earlier.

“Is this about the whole AA thing?”

“I mean...yeah. But also…” he trails off.

“I’m sorry I said that, I just thought--”

“No,” he interrupts. “Don’t apologize. It was...fair to ask.” There’s a beat of silence. “...So?

“Oh, um…” I contemplate whether it would be best to tell the truth.

“You can tell me the truth, Walter.” We exchange a look. Is he a mind reader, or am I just that obvious?

...It’s probably the latter.

Anyway, I decide to be the most honest I can be without making him feel worse.

“Honestly...it’s hard to say. I think...I think you’re going through lot, and have been for some time. But beyond that, I don’t really think it’s my place to decide.”

Robert nods and looks away, clearly disappointed with my answer.

I ask, “Do you think you’re an alcoholic?”

Shaking his head, he says, “I don’t know.”

He takes some time to think, then says, “I...have a problem, though. I know I do. But, uh...I don’t know if it’s any one thing. You know?”

I nod. “I think so.”

He nods as well. “Yeah, I just...I don’t know if I can be called an...addict, like, an alcoholic, because that’s not…” he sighs. “That’s not the problem. That’s not what I’m addicted to.”

“Then…” I start to ask a question, then hesitate.

“Yeah?

“...What _are_ you addicted to?” I look at him, and he looks back at me with the saddest mixture of despair and confusion, and he shakes his head.

“Being...like this.” He looks back to his cigarette for the first time in several minutes. The cigarette has burned down completely, leaving only ash. Robert flicks it and attempts to take one last drag, but it’s useless.

He mutters, “Fucking christ,” and tosses the cigarette to the ground.

I don’t know what to say. How do you convince anyone of their inherent worth, let alone someone who has spent as long a time hating themselves as Robert has?

“You’re not broken.” I say. “You just...need time to heal.”

Robert briefly glances at me before looking back to the floor of the pickup. He smiles a bit, and this time, it sticks around.

“And you know,” I add. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I don’t?”

“No,” I say.

“I dunno.”

I sigh and turn towards him. “Robert, listen. I think what you’re doing is really brave.”

He turns his head towards me, and for the first time tonight, without saying anything, he holds my gaze.

“Not a lot of people are even capable of recognizing their own faults, let alone doing what they know will be better for them in the long run. You’re really taking steps to work on yourself, and...I’m proud of you.” Robert smiles in that rare way, that surprised, I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that sort of way, and I almost lose my train of thought.

I laugh and sigh a bit before continuing. “Anyway...what I’m trying to say is, you don’t need to torture yourself more by doing it alone. It’s okay to ask for help. I mean, that’s what friends are for, right?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’ve expected other people to fix me before, I can’t let you do that.”

I laugh. “It’s not like that, I wouldn’t necessarily be _fixing_ you, just...holding you accountable. Lending a hand.” He still doesn’t look convinced. “Lightening the load.” I say, nudging him. He shrugs me off, but he’s smiling. “Lightin’ that fire.” He laughs a little, this time. “Inspiring your...inspiration.”

“What?” He says, now actually laughing and shaking his head.

I can’t keep a straight face. “Bustin’ your butt,” I say, and erupt in a fit of giggles.

Robert playfully shoves me, and we both laugh for a long stretch. I think we both know the joke wasn’t that funny.

After we both sober, Robert looks at me again, and while his expression is serious, it has taken on some warmth, and he opens his mouth. I wait for him to speak, but after a moment, he closes his mouth again and remains quiet, so we both look back to the stars.

For the rest of the night, we don’t say much. Sometimes one of us will point to a constellation and ask the other to name it. Mostly, though, we sit silently, both of us knowing there’s more that could be said, and neither of us willing to do the saying.

One question, however, burns in my mind.

We pull into my driveway, and as I reach for the door handle, I pause.

“Hey Robert?

“Yeah?”

“...How does one listen to Styx ironically?”

He laughs. “Goodnight, Walter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!   
> Be sure to comment & let me know your thoughts. I would love any & all feedback!


	2. Step 2 - Accepting The Damn Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a week of radio silence, Walter receives a call.

It’s been a week since that night, which is the last time Robert and I have spent time together. Sometimes I’ll catch signs of him moving through his house, just a glimpse of red & black through a window, or the sound of his truck’s engine turning over, or the flash of a television screen in the dark. But, mostly, it’s been quiet.

Yesterday, I ran into Mary at the Wegman’s that just opened up downtown. Amanda and I strolled down the produce aisle, pretending to look for fruits and vegetables to buy, when I heard a voice.

“Heya, sailor.” I turned to see her, noticeably child-free and leaning against a crate of bananas.

“Mary?” I asked.

“Who else would it be?”

We greeted each other, and after some small talk, she asked me, “Hey, have you...seen Robert at all lately?”

I shook my head. “About a week ago, but not since then.”

“Huh,” She said, with a furrowed brow.

“Why?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Oh, no reason.” She trailed off, then said. “Look, just...try to keep an eye on him, alright? Maybe check in with him soon? I, um...haven’t seen him in a minute.”

Amanda and I briefly exchanged a look. “Um...yeah, I’ll check in with him ASAP,” I said.

“Cool,” she said, but she didn’t seem entirely reassured. “Anyways, I gotta jam. Smell ya later.”

She started to walk away. “Bye, Mary!” Amanda said. We started to walk away, too, moving in the opposite direction of Mary, when I stopped and turned back.

“Hey, Mary.”

She stopped and turned to face me.

“Let’s get a drink soon.”

She smiled and said, “Sure thing, sport,” then walked away.

After we got home from Wegmans, which Amanda described using the word “bougie” and I didn’t entirely understand what she meant, I texted Robert.

I decided to keep it casual.

“Hey man, wanna get together soon?”

As expected, I had to wait hours for a reply, but what he said struck me as odd.

“yeah, soon, ill lyk when im free”

 

It’s now mid-June, and summer in Maple Bay is now in full swing. The air is hot and thick with the smell of sunscreen, hot asphalt, and the sea, and the cul-de-sac bustles with playing children and shirtless dads mowing their lawns. I’m sitting in Craig’s backyard and relaxing on a plastic lounge chair, watching as Amanda attempts, and fails, to play catch with Briar and Hazel. I’ve opted to trade in my traditional Tommy Bananas suit for a much more heat-conscious ensemble consisting of a pair of denim shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, which according to Amanda, are coming back into fashion, but only ironically.

“Okay,” I say, “You’re going to have to break down this whole ‘irony’ trend to me, because it’s showing up everywhere and frankly I’m confused.”

At this point, Amanda gives up on playing catch and joins Craig and I on our lounge chairs. She laughs and takes a sip of her smoothie. “Pops, you know if I try, you’ll just end up more confused. Let me just save you the pain and assure you that it’s a young people thing you don’t need to understand.”

Craig chimes in, “Amanda’s right, bro. The teenage mind is an enigma.”

I sigh and momentarily resign myself to not knowing, then take another sip of my smoothie. Who knew that kale in a smoothie could taste so good?

“Dude, how many of those have you had today?” Craig asks.

“Uh...four?” He raises his eyebrows. “Why, what’s wrong?”

Stifling a laugh, he says, “Nothing, just...don’t blame me for whatever happens next.”

Amanda breaks into hysterics as I make a face I can only imagine reflects the wave of regret I am now experiencing. Why do I do these things to myself?

I sigh. “I am but a modern Icarus.”

Meanwhile, Craig stands up, grabs the softball glove Amanda left on the picnic table, and starts tossing the ball with his daughters. After some time passes, I look to my phone to discover I have no new notifications. I look at Robert’s last text to me.

“yeah, soon, ill lyk when im free”

“Amanda?” I ask.

“Yeah?”

“What does l.y.k. Mean?”

She sighs. “Still nothing?”

I nod. “Still nothing.”

Amanda gets up from her lounge chair, walks over to me, and rests her chin on top of my head.

“I love you, dad.” She pauses. “I’d hug you but we’re both sweaty.”

I laugh. “Love you too, Manda.”

At that moment, as if summoned by sheer willpower, my phone begins to buzz in my hand. I look at the screen. It says Robert. I shoot my head up and look at Amanda, accidentally bumping her chin.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, sorry!

“It’s fine, it’s fine, just answer the damn phone!”

“Should I? I mean--”

“YES!”

“OKAY!”

At this point, everyone in the yard has stopped playing catch to stare at this display, including River. Ignoring them, I pick up the phone as Amanda says, “Nothin’ to see here folks, please resume your sportsball and ignore my dad.”

Once I pick up the call, however, I lose any concept of what I should say. Hello? How’s it going, buddy? ‘Sup? How’s it hangin’? Where ya been? What-cha up to? How-

“Uh...Walter?” He interrupts my mounting panic.

“Hi, hey! Sorry about that, I just…” I sigh. “Hey.”

He sighs as well. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothin’ really, I just...are you home right now?” His voice quivers slightly, and his speech slurs--not enough to make me think he’s drunk, but enough to tell me he’s been drinking.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m with Craig right now.”

“Oh.” He says. Shit. That probably made it sound like...not what I meant it to. “I shouldn’t have interrupted...Sorry, I’ll just--”

“And Amanda!” I interrupt. “And Briar and Hazel and River. We’re, um...drinking smoothies.”

He chuckles. “Oh. Gotcha.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and I smile, too. “Well, if you’re free later tonight, give me a call.”

“I will,” I say. “Actually, Briar and Hazel have a softball game in about an hour, so...we could do something, if you want.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Jim and Kim’s?” I ask, out of habit. Double shit.

“Actually, I was thinking the Coffee Spoon.” Thank god.

I laugh. “That sounds perfect.”

“Sweet.” He pauses. “Uh...see ya there.”

“Yeah, uh...see you,” I reply, and hang up. I look at Amanda, who’s smiling from ear to ear.

“...I think I just successfully made plans with Robert.”

She claps me on the shoulder. “I knew you crazy kids would work it out.”

 

One hour later, I’ve said goodbye to Craig and his kids, dropped Amanda and the car off at home, and walked to The Coffee Spoon. I expect to wait a bit for Robert to show up, but when I walk into the building, I see him sitting in a booth in the far back corner of the shop. Before I am able to wave to him, Mat greets me from behind the counter.

“Walter, buddy! It’s been a minute.”

I walk up to the counter. “Yeah, it has! How you doing?”

He nods, “I can’t complain. Hey, the Right Said Banana Bread is selling like hotcakes...or banana-cakes, in this case.”

“Dude, that’s awesome!” I say. I wish I could engage more with Mat right now, but with Robert sitting right there and the mounting anticipation of finding out what he’s been up to and if he’s okay hanging over my head, I’m finding it difficult to interact properly.

There’s an awkward silence. “So, um,” Mat finally says, “Can I get you anything?”

“Agh, no thanks. I’m all smoothied out.”

Mat gives me a knowing look. “Craig?”

I nod solemnly. “Craig.”

I look to Robert; he’s not drinking anything. He’s chewing his lip and looking down at his hands, which are busy picking at a coffee collar. Beneath the table, he bounces his leg. He looks up to me briefly, but the second we make eye contact, he returns his focus to the nearly decimated piece of cardboard between his fingers. He looks rough, unshaven, and tired. Like the night I met him.

“Has he ordered anything?” I ask.

“Nah,” Mat says. “He got in 30 minutes ago, asked me to put on some Neil Young, then sat in the corner.” Neil Young? That’s out of character.

“Alright, in that case, could I get an iced Red Eye Blind for here?”

“Sure thing, man,” Mat says.

I thank him, pay, then walk over to Robert’s table. When I reach him, he glances up, then looks back to his hands.

“Hey,” he says, and I slide into the other side of the booth, struggling to find what to say. He continues tearing at the coffee collar, which is now a pile of cardboard scraps.

“You good?” I ask, perhaps against my better judgement.

“Yeah,” he replies, “I’m good.”

“So you’re murdering that coffee collar because…”

He looks me dead in the eye. “This is the coffee collar that killed my mother. After years of searching, I finally caught the cardboard bastard hiding in plain sight, right here, in our very own neighborhood. Gave him what was comin’ to him.” He picks up another scrap and slowly tears it apart, as though he were inflicting pain upon it.

I pretend to hold up a notepad and pen, and push my glasses down on my nose. “So, Robert, was revenge everything you hoped it would be?”

He shakes his head. “You know, I thought I would feel satisfied, but now, I just feel empty. I’ve fulfilled my life’s purpose, and now, I don’t know what I have to look forward to.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Guess I’ll have to hunt down the plastic lid that killed my brother.”

I laugh. “Thank you for your service, Mr. Small. Your dedication to petty revenge has done the coffee shops of Maple Bay a great service.” Mid-speech, I see Mat walking over to our table with Robert’s drink. I place one hand on my chest, and with my other arm gesture to Mat as I continue, “As a coffee drinker, nay, as a citizen of America, I bestow upon you…” I look to Mat, who now stands in front of the table, looking terribly confused.

“Uh…”

Under my breath, I tell him, “Mat, the name of the drink.”

“Oh.” He says. He clears his throat. “One Iced Red Eye Blind for here,” he says as he sets the drink on the table.

“Bravo!” I say and give my best golf clap.

Robert laughs. “Thank you, thank you, you’re too kind,” he says, feigning a bow. All the while, Mat stands in front of us, half-laughing and truly out-awkwarding himself. That poor, adorable man.

I laugh and look up to Mat. “Sorry, man, thanks for the drink.”

“Stellar performance, truly,” Robert says, giving Mat his own round of applause.

Mat laughs. “Um...thanks?” he says, then walks off, smiling and shaking his head, still obviously confused. Robert and I look at each other and burst into laughter.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen Robert crack a joke, let alone laugh. The last time we saw each other, that night when we looked at the stars, he only laughed once, and didn’t seem willing to play along with anything I said. He has a reputation for being a somber, mysterious man. But the Robert I know is not that man, and I’ve seen him laugh and joke and sing with the kind of abandon I can only envy. Beneath his steely gaze lies something softer, something rare and full of light. I rarely see him _truly_ solemn, and now, seeing him smile, I realize just how down he must have been than night. It scares me.

So, it’s good to see him laugh.

After we quiet down a bit, Robert and I meet eyes, and we hold each other’s gaze. Gradually, his face falls, and I feel mine falling, too. I feel my worry creep onto my expression.

I start to try to say something. I don’t know what I’m going to say, exactly, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. “So…”

Robert clears his throat, saving me from inevitable embarrassment. “Uh, thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

I nod and smile, and it feels half-hearted, though I don’t mean it to be. God, things with Robert used to feel so natural and easy. Why does every interaction suddenly feel like pulling teeth?

“Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry things have been so weird lately. I’ve just been...trying to figure some stuff out.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I understand. Take all the time you need.”

“No,” he says. “I mean, thank you. But you don’t have to pretend like nothing’s wrong. Because that’s not true.”

“Oh.”

“But it’s not you. It’s me. Do you…?” Robert sighs. “Fuck. What I’m trying to say is, I’m just...having a harder time than I thought I would. Adjusting. It’s really hard to be around you and not act like...you know, like things are…” He trails off. I can see him struggling.

I throw him a line. “Like things are heading somewhere?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Not to say that they aren’t, I mean. But also...not to say that they are. I just...ugh.” He shoves his hand through his hair and rustles it around, then grabs at the back of his neck. “This is hard.” He sets both his hands back on the table and goes back to tearing at the cardboard. “I just...want it to be easy again.”

I want to say something,  but I don’t know what to say, let alone if I should. It's been hard for me, too. I want to tell him.

I look at his hands again. They tremor slightly as they tear at the paper.  Slowly, I reach across the table and place my hand on his.

“Hey,” I say, looking him in the face. He looks up at me. “Me too.”

His hands settle on the table. He doesn’t move to touch me back, but I can feel his nervous energy subsiding. I give his hand a squeeze. He looks at my hand, then, barely moving, reaches his thumb up slightly to touch my hand. It’s a small gesture, but it says plenty. He smiles.

“Good.”

We pull away, and he takes a sip of his coffee. We sit in the silence for a moment, and I listen to the ambient sound around us. The shop is pretty empty; I think we’re the only customers. I can hear Mat moving between the kitchen and the front counter, stacking dishes and humming along to the Neil Young record playing from the corner. The song that’s playing right now is soft and simple; I think I recognize it, but I’m not sure. I think this album came out before I was born.  

“So I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About what you said.”

I smile. “You know, I’ve said many things in my life, Robert. You may have to clarify.”

He chuckles. “You know what I mean.” I nod. “And um...I think help, you know...would be really nice, actually.”

“Yeah,” I say, “Of course.”

There’s a pause between us.

We’re both nodding.

I’m waiting for him to say something.

He’s looking at me expectantly.

Does he want me to say something?

I think he does.

Jesus Christ we’re both useless.

“So!” I finally say. “What kind of help do you need?”

Robert’s face goes blank. “Um.” He says. “I hadn’t actually gotten that far yet.”

A laugh a little. “Alright. Let’s maybe start with something tangible, nothing major.”

“Hm.” Robert says. “Like what?”

I pause to think. I think about what I did whenever Alex went through his downswings. I think about what happens every time Amanda gets in a funk. Her room gets messy, and she forgets to do the dishes, just like her father did.

I smile.

“What?” Robert says, smiling too.

“Robert?” I ask.

Fear begins to build beneath his expression. “Yes?”

“When’s the last time you cleaned your house?”

His face falls.

I now know that this is the perfect place to start.


	3. Step 3 - Taking Baby, Baby Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walter helps Robert clean his house.

Walking aimlessly on a summer night used to be one of my favorite things to do. On nights like this, when the sky was clear and the air was cool enough, Alex and I would take Amanda to the park or to get ice cream, then wander for hours, talking about everything and absolutely nothing.

I don’t remember what happened the final time I went on a walk with Alex, probably because the thought never crossed my mind that all of it could come to a crashing halt. If I had any inkling then that it was the last time I could do my favorite thing with my favorite person, I think I would have made more of a point to remember it. All I remember is that it was a particularly hot night, and when we got home, Alex and I took the hose to each other in the backyard. I remember laughing and holding him, the both of us soaking wet, and I remember him saying, “This is why I love you.”

Since he passed, I haven’t made much of a point to go on any aimless walks.

 

“Fine. We can clean my house,” Robert says after at least ten minutes of relentless nagging. We don’t talk much about the “help” thing after that; we just talk. It feels nice to catch up. It feels nice to feel normal, like nothing has changed. And maybe, nothing has. For now, I think that’s a good thing.

After we leave The Coffee Spoon, we start walking back to the cul-de-sac. After about a block or two, something stirs inside me, and I feel like there’s a hand grabbing onto my stomach and twisting. I double over and mutter a few expletives.

I feel a hand on my back. “Whoa, Walter, are you--”

“No, it’s fine,” I choke out. “I drank four kale smoothies.”

Robert guffaws. “And _that,_ my friend, is why I don’t hang out with Craig.”

I look up at him and manage a half smile. “Maybe I should take your advice.” I start to laugh, but my stomach protests. “Ow ow ow…”

Robert rubs my back for a moment, then gives it a firm pat. “Alright, Chief. Let’s get you some medicine.”

Robert and I continue walking, and he lets me stop for intermittent pain breaks.

“Don’t you remember anything from Lamaze?” He asks as I’m bent over, heaving.

I strain, “Not enough, apparently.”

We walk a few more blocks, past our cul-de-sac, and reach a 7-11.

“Wait here,” he says just before walking into the store.

I wait outside, leaning up against the wall, bent over with my hands on my knees.

A few minutes later, he emerges with two bottles of soda in either hand. He passes me one.

“Canada Dry. Cures all ills.”

After I chug half the bottle, Robert asks, “Wanna keep walking?”

I say, “Sure.”

We walk a few more blocks to a park the size of my living room, consisting of a bench, a lamppost, a garbage can, and some shrubbery. Beer cans and plastic bags litter the grass, and teens lurk in the bushes, smoking and whispering and occasionally shouting.

"Nice place,” I say.

“Thanks,” he replies. He gestures to the beer cans, “Decoration’s in good taste, wouldn’t ya say?”

We sit on the bench and sip our sodas, not saying much, but the silence isn’t as tense as it was the last time we hung out; it’s comfortable. As my stomach settles, I begin to notice more of the things around me, like how the air is the perfect temperature, and how Robert and I must have been together for hours, because the sun has almost set, and that Robert is wearing short sleeves. I think this is the first time I’ve seen his bare arms. He’s...surprisingly muscular. Not in a beefy, Craig kind of way, no. He’s...toned.

“Wow.” I whisper.

“Hm?” He says.

Shit that wasn’t supposed to be out loud.

“Nothing, uh--” I stutter. “It’s just a beautiful night.”

Robert breathes in and looks out at the scenery ahead of us, which consists of a busy city street and the 7-11 we just walked from. “Yeah, it is.”

“You’re wearing short sleeves.”

Robert laughs. “Yeah, so are you.”

I cock my head. “Touche.”

We talk for another hour, until it’s dark, and my head begins to loll mid-conversation.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

We walk back to the cul-de-sac and slow down in front of his house. Before we say goodbye, I stop him.

“Thanks for asking for help.”

He smiles. “Thanks for offering.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

When I shut the door to my bedroom, I go over to my desk and pick up the old red bandanna Robert unintentionally gave me, which I keep tucked away in the corner. I hold it to the light; I can still make out where my blood stained it. Slowly, methodically, I wrap it around my palm and tuck the corners under. I hesitate, then bring the piece of fabric up to my nose and breathe in.

It smells like rust and motor oil. It smells like Robert, who smells nothing like summer. Yet, despite that, I feel like I’m taking a walk in the dead heat of June.

I walk over to my bed and flop onto it helplessly. I feel like a teenager.

 

The following morning, I ring his doorbell.

I wait one minute. (Exactly. I literally count the seconds.)

I ring it a second time, now that I’ve waited the appropriate amount of time between rings.

Still, nothing.

Okay, let’s try knocking. I knock “Shave and a Haircut” on his door.

...Nope.

Should I call? No, that would be too pushy. Maybe he was up late. Maybe he needs the sleep. Maybe I should come back later.

I ring the doorbell one last time before walking away, and I wait. After waiting, and still hearing nothing, I turn to walk away. Then, I hear something-- I hear someone walking down the steps inside. No, bounding. I turn.

The door swings open, revealing a haggard Robert standing behind it. His hand remains on the handle, and his shoulders are hunched. His hair is ruffled and one of his eyes is closed, and he looks the same way Amanda does when she has to wake up early, but angrier. It’s adorable. I notice he’s only wearing boxers, and make every effort to look anywhere but down.

I chuckle. “Glad I’m not the one opening the door with no pants this time.”

“What do you want?” He huffs.

I hold up the special bag of coffee--it’s fair trade and everything--I bought earlier this morning just for the occasion. “I brought coffee,” I say, smiling. He blinks and gives me a vacant look. “You know...because we’re cleaning?”

He closes his eyes. “Right.” He looks me up and down, then sighs. “Come in.”

“Great!” I say, maybe too enthusiastically, and I move past him into his house. I’ve already had two cups of coffee this morning, and have no plans to slow down. “Do you have a coffee maker?” I ask.

He grunts. “It’s in the kitchen.”

It’s the first time I’ve been in his house since the night he told me about Val. Things don’t look different, not by much. I notice there are less liquor bottles lying around, and less miscellaneous food wrappers and containers, and less...well, everything. It’s not clean, per se, but it at least shows signs of effort. But still, it’s cluttered and dishevelled and horribly cool, much like its owner.

I hear the _clak-clak-clak_ of little feet on a wooden floor, and turn to see Betsy running up to greet me.

“Betsy!” I say as I kneel to pet her. She wriggles and shakes, then jumps up to give me kisses. Before I can blink, her little sausage body is wiggling around in my arms, and she continues to jump at my face and attack me with licks. I laugh hysterically.

Robert stands back and chuckles, or at least I think he does; I think it’s too early for him to be registering emotions. “Betsy, down.” Robert says. She doesn’t listen.

“It’s okay,” I manage to say between kisses. I hear Robert walk over and he scoops Betsy up in his arms.

"Are you ready to clean, girl?” He says as he holds her like a baby. She resumes licking furiously. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

After Robert puts Betsy down, we head into the kitchen. Immediately after I step through the door, I stop dead in my tracks.

“Yeah…” Robert says from behind me. “It’s seen better days.”

The sink overflows with dishes. The burner is cluttered with dishes. There are dishes on the floor. Basically, there are dishes everywhere. It seems like this is the center of Robert’s neglect. I take a deep breath and steel my resolve, then turn to him.

"I’m not gonna lie to ya,” I say in a gruff, masculine tone, “it’s not gonna be pretty. But if there’s anyone who can get the job done--” I pause for dramatic effect and remove my glasses-- “It’s me.”

Robert smiles and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“What can I say? I learned from the best.”

I wade through the mess and make my way to the coffee maker. I look to Robert, who stands in the doorway staring blankly.

“...Robert?”

He blinks several times and looks at me. “Right, um…” He looks down at himself. “I’m gonna go put some pants on.”

When he comes downstairs, the coffee is ready, and we drink it in silence. I sneak several glances at him; he looks tired. Maybe I shouldn’t have come over so early. I can’t tell if he’s angry with me, though. I suppose if he were, he wouldn’t have let me come in.

When we finish, I ask him, “You ready?”

“Depends.” He says. “Are you?”

 

We start with his bedroom, and it occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve seen his room in the daylight. As expected, it’s a cluttered mess, but the room itself is well decorated. I open the shades, revealing a a balcony with a sliding glass door. The view of the neighborhood is stunning. How much money does this guy have?

In the daylight, more is revealed. As I pick up miscellaneous garbage, I ignore the number of condom wrappers I find, or at least try to. I wonder if they’re recent. I trust Robert, but still, the thought sticks.

One other thing starts to dawn on me; I’ve seen pictures of Val everywhere, but I don’t think I’ve seen any photos of Marilyn. Maybe he disposed of them after she died. I couldn’t imagine doing that to Alex. Maybe they’re just hidden somewhere, where they can’t remind Robert of what he’s missing.

As we clean the house, the air between us feels strange. Robert’s not saying much, but I can’t quite place what he’s feeling. It’s not anger. It’s something else.

The upstairs is not as bad as the rest of the house, and we finish the floor by noon. We decide to eat lunch, then tackle the kitchen.

“Do you wanna make something at my house?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No thanks, I’m not much of a cook.” I nod. He looks at me. “And neither are you.”

I place my hand on my chest and feign disgust. “I am so a good cook. Or...competent, at least.”

“By the way, grilling doesn’t count.”

“...Oh.”

We decide to raid my fridge and make do with miscellaneous snacky food for now. I give Robert the cold pizza I was saving for breakfast tomorrow morning and instead opt for Oreos and peanut butter (a classic combination.)

In between a bite of pizza, Robert says, “Parent Trap?”

I nod. “Parent Trap. A classic.”

He chuckles a little. “Val used to love it.” He stares blankly at his pizza for a moment, then takes another bite.

When we return to his house, we decide to do what we’ve been avoiding all day and clean the kitchen. We gather every dish from around the entire house and stack them on the counter near the sink. In total, they take up every surface in the room. I’m suddenly feeling like much less of a disaster than I usually do, and I feel bad for even thinking it.

We finish the kitchen around 4 P.M., then immediately and simultaneously collapse onto the couch in the living room.

Robert lets out an emphatic sigh. “I never...want to touch a dish...again.”

I laugh, then reach over to clap him on the shoulder. “Good hustle out there, champ.”

“Thanks, coach,” he replies. “Think I’ll make varsity?”

“Depends,” I say. “How much pizza are you willing to eat to get there?”

He leans forward and puts his hands on my shoulders, and with a serious look, says, “As many pizzas as it takes.”

“Alright. Let’s keep cleaning until it gets here.”

Robert falls back on the couch and sighs like a moody teenager.

All we have left to do is the living room, and at this point, we’ve both lost our stamina. My back hurts from all the bending over and kneeling on the floor, and I don’t think Robert is much better; any time he has to reach for something, he makes that old man sound most of us dads reserve for when we have to get up from a particularly comfortable couch.

After ten minutes, Robert and I have moved two pillows and folded one blanket, and done a lot of blank staring.

“I’m dying,” I say.

“I hear ya.”

We stand still for a moment in an exhaustion-induced haze. I look over to his record player.

“Mind if I put on some music?”

He nods. “By all means.”

I walk over to the table and begin flipping through his vinyl collection. It’s an expansive collection of old classics and dad rock, and it’s nothing less than I would expect. The collection isn’t organized in any particular order, but it’s clear that it’s well taken care of; the area around the record player is the cleanest in the house.

After several moments and some deliberation, I make my choice. I place the record on the turntable and set the needle down, and after a moment, the opening chords of “Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones sing though the sound system. It’s a smooth, funky tune, and the second it comes on I realize it might be setting a sexier tone than is appropriate. Still, I decide to roll with it.

As soon as the drums kick in, I nod my head along to the beat, then slowly turn to Robert while pulling out my best step-touch and snap (a timeless classic).

He laughs and folds his arms, then shakes his head. I dance towards him slowly. As soon as Mick comes in with the verse, I join in, doing my best impression. I forgot how much I loved this song.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says for maybe the fifth time today, but I just keep on singing and dancing, progressively getting funkier as I go. I pick up an empty beer bottle and use it as a microphone.

“ _I’ve walked for miles_ ,” I sing, “ _My feet are hurtin’,”_ I circle and serenade him, then give him a little punch on the shoulder. He laughs and looks away slightly, and…I think he’s blushing. Suddenly, he reaches down, grabs another empty bottle, then snaps his face towards me. Then, with the best Mick Jagger I’ve ever heard, he joins in.

Soon, we’re dancing around the full space of the living room and scream-singing towards each other. As the guitar solo comes in, I run from across the room and jump onto the coffee table to give the air-guitaring of a lifetime. As I go to my knees and shred on my invisible guitar, Robert jumps onto the couch and prepares to come into, arguably, the best part of the song.

We both sing, “ _I’ll tell ya, you can put me out on the street.”_ He points to me. _“Put me out,”_ he croons, then closes his eyes and shakes his fist. We both attempt (and fail) to riff, _“With no shoes on my feet.”_ It sounds horrible, but I don’t care. He jumps off the couch, and I jump off the table, and we walk towards each other and sing into our bottles, “ _Put me out, put me out, put me out of misery._ ”

We’re close now and circling each other. Robert’s laughing and smiling, and when he sings, he looks directly into my eyes. His voice isn’t half bad; it’s gruff and gravelly, and he doesn’t really sing in key, but it’s got a soulful quality. It’s sort of mesmerizing to watch. It’s enough to make me forget the words, and I realize that I haven’t been singing for quite some time. I’ve just been standing still, watching Robert sing, grinning like an idiot.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and, very gently, gives me a shove.

“Cmon, don’t stop now.” I blush. He continues to dance, then places his hands on my shoulders and lowers himself to my height. He sings directly to me, “ _Ain’t I rough enough_ ,” then lifts up his head and yells, “ _OOH BABY_.” From the next room, Betsy howls, and we both laugh.

“See?” He says. “Even Betsy’s singin’.”

I give him a playful shove. Then, he raises his eyebrows, and in one swift movement grabs my hand and pulls me towards him. Before I know what I’m doing, we’re dancing the way old people do, with him holding out my left hand and holding my waist like we’re ballroom dancing. He makes a joke of it, though, and rocks us back and forth, and spins me out, all the while still singing like Mick Jagger. Neither of us can stop laughing as we spin among the mess. Eventually, the song fades out, and soon, we’re just standing there, still half-holding each other, almost laughing but not quite.

He smiles a bittersweet smile, then moves his hand to my cheek. I let my eyes close and lean into his touch. As soon as it's there, however, it’s gone, and the next song begins to play. We each clear our throats, then move to continue cleaning.

We're essentially finished cleaning by the time the pizza arrives, save for a few smaller organizational things. We sit down on the couch, each of us with a box in our laps.

Robert asks, “Wanna watch some history channel?”

I say, “Sure,” and he turns on the television.

“Oh man,” I say. “Ancient Aliens is the best.”

He says nothing, just shakes his head and smiles. I think he’s going to change the channel, knowing he doesn’t really like this show, or much television in general, but he doesn’t. Instead, he opens his respective box of pineapple pizza, digs in, and stretches his arm out on the couch, so that it’s almost around me, but not quite.

We each eat an entire pizza, which I know we will both regret. Robert and I sprawl and sink into the couch and watch television for hours. I’m sure it’s a sad sight.

Around hour three, I close my eyes for a moment, and for the life of me, can’t seem to open them.

“Mmmm...I’m sleepy.” I say

“Mmm,” I hear Robert say. He sighs. It’s the last sound I remember.

Several hours later, I open my eyes to find myself draped in a leather jacket, and when I look down, I see Robert, slightly snoring, passed out with his head on my lap and his legs hanging off the couch. I smile and move my hand to touch his hair but think better of it, then close my eyes again, and let myself drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the comments & the kudos so far!


	4. Step 4 - Making the Decision to Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert asks a question, and Walter answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for alcoholism, addiction, and discussion of mental illness apply.

The rest of the month passes without incident. The days get hotter and longer, and before long, it’s July.

I’ve been spending a semi-regular amount of time with Robert. We see each other at least twice a week, and on several occasions, we’ve even made plans one day in advance. We haven’t gone out drinking since the night of the ghost tour, and I haven’t seen Mary since the day we ran into each other at Wegman’s. I tried to bring Mary up once, but he changed the subject before I could get very far. When we do hang out, we try to avoid anything involving alcohol, and we usually go to The Coffee Spoon, or take long walks, or watch a movie at Robert’s place. He’s been trying to “educate” me, with minimal success.

“You haven’t seen _Bicycle Thieves_?” He asked me from across the couch. We sat there in our sweatpants, sitting cross legged and facing each other, passing a tub of ice cream back and forth. I began to wonder if we’ve replaced alcohol with junk food but decided that was a topic for another day.

“Robert,” I said, “I don’t think most people have seen _Bicycle Thieves_.”

He shook his head, and with a mouthful of ice cream said, “But it’s a cornerstone of Italian Neorealism. Everyone should see it.”

“Are you trying to say we’re watching _Bicycle Thieves_ tonight?”

“I’m definitely saying we’re watching _Bicycle Thieves_ tonight.”

Throughout the movie, which was (as expected) thoroughly depressing, Robert would turn to me to rattle off trivia. I began to suspect it was his favorite movie, given the way he continued to not-so subtly look my way at every small moment or particularly well-framed shot.

At a certain point in the movie, I’m not sure when, I fell asleep, despite my desperate attempts to stay awake. Soon, I felt a hand shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see Robert’s face inches from mine, and I realized that my head was on his chest.

“Hey, it’s late,” he said.

I groaned. “How long have I been out?”

He smiled a little and said, “About two hours.”

I guess falling asleep on one another was becoming a habit.

           

He seems to be improving, at least, as far as I can tell. His house has remained relatively clean, and his appearance is shifting; he shaves more often, wears different shirts now and then, and has even changed his deodorant (which, yes, I noticed). Now, I find myself worrying about what he’s doing less and less, and no longer find myself on edge, waiting to see whether he will text or call expecting me to drop everything. It has still happened once or twice, and whenever it happens, we do the same thing; we drive out to his “thinking spot” and say little as Robert whittles and I watch him, and every once and a while ask one another to name the stars.

On one of these nights, I find myself particularly drawn to the sight of his hands. They’re hard. Weathered. Strong. They move deftly yet deliberately as he shapes the piece of wood in his hands. The way he works makes it look like he’s carving through butter. I can’t tell what he’s making yet; it looks like he’s just started it.

“What are you making?” I ask.

He smiles that rare, stunning smile at me and winks. “You’ll see.” Jesus, he’s beautiful. I’m glad it’s dark, because I’m sure my cheeks are flushed bright red.

I scoot closer to him and tap my foot to his. “Is it for me?”

He grins again and taps my foot in response. “Not telling.”

We fall silent again, and soon, I find myself laying on my stomach, resting my head in my hands and watching him work.

Sometimes, it’s difficult for me to put my feelings for Robert aside. But in moments like this, the simple, quiet moments, when we let each other in with few words and little reservation, it becomes the easiest thing in the world. In moments like this, I’m content to say nothing, to do nothing, to just keep his company and leave it at that.

“Robert?” I say.

“Hm.”

“I could stay like this forever.”

He stops in the middle of a knife stroke. I look to his face. He doesn’t look at me, but he nods.

“Me too.”

I look down to his hands again, but he’s stopped working. He’s looking out at the water, and I can see the thought on his face.

Finally, he says, “I’m glad we’re still friends.”

“Me too, Robert.”

He sighs. “I was worried that we wouldn’t be.”

“I know. Me too.”

He sets down his knife and block of wood, then turns to me, making full eye contact.

“You know…” he starts. “…remember when we stopped talking a few weeks ago?” I nod. “I feel like I never really apologized completely, so, um…this is that.”

“It’s okay, Robert.”

“Thanks…” He clears his throat. “Still, I feel like I should explain. See, when I drink…” He stops and looks down, then continues. “When I drink, it makes things…easier. I didn’t know if you would like the person I am when I’m…sober. And I didn’t know how to be around you without it.” He pauses. “I don’t know how to be around anyone without it.”

I nod. It seems like he has more to say.

“Can I tell you something?” He asks me, and he looks at me, but his head is still hung low.

“Of course.”

“I haven’t stopped.” I nod. I’m not exactly surprised—drinking is a hard habit to break—but nonetheless, my heart sinks. “And I haven’t seen Mary either. I just…drink alone. And sometimes, when we’re together, I’m…you know. Even though I’m not supposed to be.”

I think about what I should say. Obviously, that’s not a good thing, but I think he already knows that.

“Okay,” I start. “Thank you for telling me, first of all.” He nods, barely. I ask him, “Do you think it’s a crutch?”

He looks down and takes a moment before saying, “Yes.”

There’s a silence. It seemed like he was getting better. I should have been able to tell if he’d been drinking. I wish I could see through him better. I wish he would tell me things sooner. There’s a lot of things I wish were different, but I shouldn’t have expected him to have a smooth recovery. I shouldn’t have expected him to get his shit together or learn how to communicate in a manner of weeks. I also can’t expect to be able to fix him, and I realize that maybe, despite what I’ve said before, that’s what I’ve been trying to do.

I know what I have to say, but I don’t want to say it.

“Robert.”

“Yeah?”

I pause. “Have you thought about seeking treatment? Like…” I really don’t want to say it. “I dunno, like AA, for example.”

His head shoots up, and his brow furrows, but as just soon as his expression shifts, all anger leaves his face, leaving only guilt behind. “Truth?” He asks.

“Yeah.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure I need it.” He pauses. “Do you think I should?”

“Truth?” I ask.

He nods, then, I nod back. “It can’t hurt.”

He shakes his head. It’s a resignation. “If you say so.”

 

It’s a Tuesday night. Robert calls me at 7:30 PM, as Amanda and I are busy eating Chinese takeout and binge-watching Great British Baking show.

When I pick up the phone, Amanda looks at me and mouths the word, “Robert?” After I nod, she nods back, and turns her attention back to the TV.

“Walter,” he says with a tone of distress in his voice.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just…be outside in five minutes.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“You’re coming with me, is what’s going on.”

When he hangs up, I look back to Amanda. She’s looking at me with an expression I can’t quite place.

“Lemme guess,” she says. “You’re going out with him?”

“I’m sorry Manda, he—”

“Needs you, right?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

She looks down. After some silence, she says, “Dad? Are you sure…” She trails off. I walk over to her and sit on the arm of the couch. She continues. “Are you sure Robert’s good for you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I dunno…” She looks up at me. “It’s just…you keep dropping plans with me, and like, I get it, it just…” She shakes her head. “Actually, it kind of hurts. And I was so excited that you found someone, but I’m just…not sure. And I miss you.” She sounds sad, but more than that, she sounds concerned. Like she’s the parent. “I just…I like Robert. I really do. But I don’t want you to watch you hurt yourself over him.”

I hear a honk come from outside. We both look out the window.

"You should go," She says.

"Are you sure?"

She nods. I lean down and hug her. "We'll talk about this when I get home, okay?"

"Okay."

"I love you."

"Love you too, Dad."

 

When I get in the car, I ask, “Where are we going?”

He sighs. “…Alcoholics Anonymous.”

I raise my eyebrows, but I see him look over at me in a way that tells me not to say anything, so I don’t. Instead I buckle my seatbelt and look out the window, and then we drive.

After fifteen painfully silent minutes, we pull into the parking lot of an old church on the other side of town.

“It’s in a church?” I ask as he pulls into a spot, but doesn’t turn off the ignition.

“Yup.” He takes a deep breath and his grip tightens on the wheel. As he exhales, he pulls one hand over his face, then blinks several times. He shakes his head. We’re still sitting idle in the parking lot.

“Hey,” I say. “It’s gonna be good.” He looks at me. “You’ll see.”

He nods. “Okay.”

We enter the church, and I’m sure it’s the first time either of us has stepped foot in a place of worship in years. It smells like expired Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup and mothballs. Yup, it’s a church alright.

Robert and I follow the signs, and after working our way up several staircases and through many fluorescent white hallways, we reach a room called “The Gathering Space”. On the wooden door, there’s a paper sign posted that says:

ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS

8PM-9PM

            “Well. Think this is the place?” Robert jokes.

            I chuckle. “It better be.”

            Robert pushes open the double doors, revealing an austere white room with dark green carpeting. The walls are lined with miscellaneous boxes, and it becomes clear that this room doubles as storage for random crap. In the center, a number of brown metal folding chairs have been placed in a circle. At the head of the circle is a plain looking blond man wearing jeans and an ill-fitting button up. He looks like he could be Joseph, in another life. There are only three chairs left open, and thankfully two of them are next to one another.

As the doors close behind us, the heads in the room turn to look at us, and all activity ceases.

“Is it too late to run?” Robert whispers.

“Maybe if we stand still enough, they won’t see us,” I reply.

“Looks like we have some newcomers!” the blond man says enthusiastically. “Welcome, my name is Jacob.”

Robert says nothing. I awkwardly wave. We look at each other, and I think we’re both thinking _dear god please help._

Jacob laughs. “Don’t be shy. Come! Sit.”

Robert whispers, “Last chance,” but I give the sleeve of his jacket a tug and beckon him to follow me to the circle. He complies, but I can feel the regret and fear coming off him in waves. As we sit, I look around the circle. There are maybe about 20 other people here, and I don’t see any faces I recognize. Even though I know in theory that anyone can be an alcoholic, I’m still surprised by the variety of people here. There’s one girl here who doesn’t look like she could be older than Amanda, and she’s dressed similar, too.  There’s another, much older woman who looks like she could be my mother. There’s a clean-cut man my age wearing an expensive looking suit, and many people dressed like Robert and I, wearing shorts and t-shirts. For the most part, their faces are friendly and warm, and as they talk amongst each other, they laugh and smile with the familiarity of old friends.

Jacob stands up from his chair and walks to the center of the circle, and Robert takes in a short breath. I see his hand, which is resting on his knee, twitch and move in my direction. He lifts it off his leg for a fraction of a second, and I watch as his fingers move, then his wrist, as he wraps his thumb around his index finger and presses down, cracking his knuckle. He balls his hand into a fist and brings it into his palm, cracking the remainder of his knuckles, and I wonder if he is honestly fidgeting, or fighting the urge to grab me and run. He’s chewing on his lip, and I can see his chest rising and falling at an unnaturally fast pace.

As I watch him, I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of guilt. He looks like a rat in a trap. Though he may have brought me here tonight, I can’t help but feel he didn’t come of his own volition.

Am I doing the right thing here?

“Good evening everyone!”

Variations of “Good evening!” erupt across the room.

I jump, then exhale. A few seconds after everyone else, I mutter “Good evening,” and Robert just gives a quiet, “Mmm.”

Jacob continues, “This is the regular meeting of the Maple Bay group of Alcoholics Anonymous. My name is Jacob, and I’m your secretary, and I also happen to be an alcoholic.” He looks around the room. “I’m seeing some new faces here tonight,” he says, glancing to me and Robert. “We’re so glad to have you all here tonight. This is an open meeting, so all are welcome. You are welcome to share your experiences, but it is by no means a requirement. Sometimes, the best thing to do is just to listen.” Despite the man’s sermon-like manner of speech, I don’t suspect the honesty behind his words, unlike Joseph.

“Our third tradition, and one of the main foundations of Alcoholics Anonymous, is simple.” He looks to the teenage girl. “Dani, do the honors?”

She shakes her head and laughs. “You can be such a shit.” Jacob laughs and shrugs. This is…not what I expected.

Dani continues, “It basically says that the only requirement for A.A. membership is the desire to stop drinking.”

“Nailed it,” Jacob says. “It follows, then, that in keeping with our singleness of purpose and our Third Tradition, we ask that if you do share, you keep your discussion to your problems with alcohol.” He breathes in, then continues. “Alright then, with that out of the way, let’s all take a moment of silence, which you can use for whatever purpose.”

The room bows their heads. I follow suit, but from my position, I sneak a glance at Robert. He’s staring out at the room, and his leg is bouncing the way it does when he has something on his mind. I look to his face, and as I do, his eyes catch mine. I look away quickly, but I already know he’s caught me.

“Now,” Jacob says, “Let’s continue with the serenity prayer.”

Prayer?

Oh no.

I shoot Robert a panicked look, but he doesn’t catch it.

The group speaks as one. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”

Oh, this one. I remember this one. Tentatively, I join in a near whisper, “the courage to change the things I can…” In that moment, I notice Robert is speaking too, but he’s barely audible.

“…and the wisdom to know the difference.”

As all this goes on, I can’t help but wonder; what does a support group for sobriety have to do with God?

And knowing Robert, I’m sure he feels the same.

I start to think. Robert has opinions on Alcoholics Anonymous, and the last time I checked, he wouldn’t be caught dead attending one of their meetings. Why, then, did he come tonight? What makes tonight different?

My face falls.

I’m here. That’s what’s different.

Asshole.

Jacob is still speaking, but I’ve stopped listening. I catch the last part of a sentence.

“I’m seeing some new faces tonight, so if you would like, why don’t you all introduce yourselves?” The room looks to Robert and me. I freeze, and for the thousandth time in the past five minutes, look to Robert, asking him to throw me a line. Anything. Instead of helping, however, he gestures vaguely to the room, as if to say, “Be my guest.”

_Asshole._

“Um.” I start.

“Don’t worry,” Jacob cuts in. “We’re not trying to embarrass you. This is just so we can get to know you better.”

I inhale. I guess I’m doing this.

“Okay, well…” I start. “My name is Walter…I’ve lived my whole life in Maple Bay, and um…” I sigh. “I’m a book editor and freelance writer, so that’s…something.” The room is silent. I clear my throat. “Anyways…” I look at Robert, who seems to be looking anywhere but my direction. Fuck it.

“I’m not an alcoholic, I’m just here with a friend.” I look to Robert and raise my eyebrows. “Care to introduce yourself?”

His face goes hard and he scowls. He gives me this look that I can only describe by comparison. It’s the look Amanda gives me every time she storms to her room. It’s the look Alex gave me every time we had an argument. It’s the look of a person who’s going to run.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m Robert, and um…” he looks at me. I shake my head at him. Looking out at his audience, he says, “…I have to go.”

With that, he stands, exits the circle, and walks out the door, with the silent expectation that I’ll follow. And I do. Because it’s all I ever do.

 

I follow the sound of Robert’s clomping footsteps through the sanitized, labyrinthine halls of the church until we’re in the parking lot, and he’s storming towards his truck with me in tow.

I stop and call out to him.

“Robert!”

No response.

“Hey.” Nothing. He just keeps walking.

“Robert, STOP.”

He does. He doesn’t turn, however. He wants to make this hard for me.

I sigh, exasperated. “Will you just—” I start. “…Will you just talk to me?”

Robert shoves his hand through his hair, then turns to me.

“What do you want me to say?”

I shake my head. “Anything.”

He sighs. “You wanted me to try, so I did.”

I laugh. “That’s not what this is, and you know it. This is…this is cruel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“You—” I start. I can feel the heat rising in my face, my chest. I realize just how loud I’m being. I close some of the distance between us. In a lower tone, I continue.

“You manipulated me.”

He pulls his head back, clearly taken aback. “I _what?”_

“You know what you did.”

He laughs. “No, I really don’t-- what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I dropped everything to be with you tonight, like I always do, and you lied to me. You brought me here because—you’ve been here. You know what these meetings are like, you’ve been through it, you just wanted to—to—”

He steps towards me. “To what?”

I shake my head. “To show me how wrong I am. To rub it in my face.”

Robert looks at me like I’ve just spit on him. “You think I…you think I tricked you into coming here? You think—” he looks off, then returns his focus to me, even more intense now, and he takes another step closer. “You think I manipulated you, brought you across town and embarrassed the fuck out of myself just to hurt you? I would _never_ do something like that, Walter, I…” His eyes are wide, searching, distressed.

He’s telling the truth.

I’m the asshole.

“I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“Forget it.” He says, cutting me off. “Let’s just go.” He turns and finishes the walk to the car.

“Robert.” I call out, but he doesn’t flinch.

 

The first five minutes of the drive are silent. Robert doesn’t bother to turn on any music, he just drives. I look at him, but he won’t look at me. Won’t acknowledge me. I need to break the silence.

“Robert,” I say.

He cuts me off with a curt, “Don’t.”

“Listen—”

“I mean it, Walter, just…don’t.”

I sigh. I don’t know if I should keep pushing. I just can’t help but feel like a complete idiot for even assuming Robert would do something like that. He may be many things, but he’s not a liar. At least, not when it counts.

“I don’t know why I assumed—”

He huffs. “Do you really want to do this?”

I just want to know what he’s thinking. “Yeah. I do.”

He grips the steering wheel tighter. “You have no idea how hard that was for me, alright? To walk in there, to admit that shit to myself…you have no idea.”

“I know—”

“And you think I put myself through that to, what, humiliate you? You, the one fuckin’ person—" he stops. He goes quiet for some time, but I know he’s not done.

“What is this to you?” He asks.

“What do you mean?”

He gestures between the two of us. “This. The helping, the cleaning, the…why are you doing this? I mean, really, what could you possibly gain from helping me?”

He speaks as though he doesn’t know. Does he really not know?

I go to speak, but he continues, gaining momentum as he goes. “That’s the thing, Walter. You treat me like your fuckin’ project, but you can’t fix me. There’s no prize at the end of this. You’re not gonna get your happy-together ending, alright? So just…” he sighs. “Stop it. Please. Just…stop.”

As he speaks, a hot pain swells in my chest, and I feel my eyes starting to water. Fuck. Not now. How can I tell him what he means to me when I can’t get a word in edgewise? How can I tell him that I don’t know how to stop?

“You’re right.” I tell him. I’m looking out the window, praying to god he can’t hear the fact that I’m crying. “There’s a part of me…that hopes for something. I…I can’t help it.” I look at him. His face has dropped completely. The lights have gone dim. “I do want to fix you, Robert. I really do. And I know…” More tears well up, and my voice cracks. There’s no hiding it now, I suppose. “I know it’s not healthy, and I know it’s not right. But…it’s not about me, okay? I’m not doing it to fulfill some sick need, or whatever. I just need…” I wipe my eyes. “I need you to be okay. You’re my friend.” I sigh, then repeat it. “I need you to be okay.”

“So, what happens,” he asks, “when you find out you can’t fix me?”

“I know I can’t, I’m just a person, I just—”

“Humor me.” He pauses. “What happens then?”

“I—” I pause.

Could I still love Robert?

Because that’s what it is. That’s what it’s always been.

Could I still love him, even if he never stops drinking, never stops self-destructing, never stops climbing out of the hole he’s dug himself, only to fall even further?

 

I remember Alex. I remember holding his hot, shaking body on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. I remember the long nights, the vomiting, the crying and the begging. I remember driving him to the hospital at 4 o’clock in the morning, and I remember receiving calls from unknown numbers, always wondering “Is this it?”

“Babe,” he once said to me. He was in the bathtub, fully clothed, eyes half-closed. I remember holding my hands to his face and stroking his hair, not even crying anymore because I’d cried all I could. “What if I never get better? What happens then?”

 

I look at Robert and wish I could do the same—lay him down somewhere warm and comforting, and just be there—no kissing, no sex, no hand-holding or confessions of love. Just be there, and have him know it’s enough.

I tell him what I told Alex.

“I’ll stick around anyways,” I say. “As long as you want me around, I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the positive feedback, you're all peaches <3


	5. Step 5 - Falling Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Robert disappears, old memories and behaviors resurface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for anxiety, depression, emetophobia, and mentions of disordered eating.

The rest of the drive goes on wordlessly. I don’t know what my words meant to Robert, but I hope they at least meant something, got through to him on some level. I hope he knows that I’m telling the truth. As we make our way home, I watch every house that passes us by, count every streetlight, hold my breath every time we cross a bridge, anything to stave off the mounting wave of panic rising inside of me. The lines of the world around me blur, and I feel like I’m watching the passing world through a television screen.

I take stock of my surroundings.

Hands on lap. Feet on floor. Glasses resting on my nose. The tension of my hair held up in a binder pulling against my forehead. Barely-cold air conditioning blowing on my face. Smoke and the smell of Robert’s cigarette. Robert’s hands, one clenching the wheel, the other moving towards his mouth. Robert’s face, hard, sorrow-tinged, impossible to read.

This is not helping.

All I can do is breathe: in through my nose, out through my mouth. I do so until Robert pulls into my driveway. The car stops, but I can’t seem to move. Robert clears his throat.

"Here,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, “Right.” I put my hand on the door handle and pull, but I stop.

“Don’t…” I start. He looks at me wearily. “Just don’t disappear on me. Alright?”

His eyes flick down and he nods, but I’m not sure if he means it.

When I enter the house, Amanda is still on the couch, right where I left her. When I close the door, she turns to me.

“Home already?” Immediately upon seeing me, her face falls. I must look like hell. I can feel it; the weight on my chest is pressing so hard, I feel like I might burst.

“…Dad?”

I can’t even get any words out. The concern on Amanda’s face is enough to break me and I crumple, releasing the tears I’ve been holding back for the past 15 minutes.

Without a word, Amanda rushes from the couch to hug me.

“I’m sorry, Manda, I shouldn’t—”

“Hey,” she interjects. “Don’t sweat it.”

After some of the crying subsides, Amanda and I turn off the television and sit across from each other on the couch, then we talk, like I promised we would.

"Amanda, I…owe you an apology,” I say. “I think I just got caught up in it all.”

Amanda says, “I know, dad. It’s okay.” She sighs. “I just don’t want you to only have Robert, you know? Especially since…” She pauses. “Okay. For example, when’s the last time you hung out with Craig?”

I open my mouth to answer, then draw a blank. I shake my head.

Amanda gives me a look of pity. “I just feel like he’s taking over your life.”

She’s right. He is. And it’s not his fault. He didn’t ask me to make him my only priority; I did that on my own.

I start, then sigh. “He’s not a bad guy, Amanda.”

 “I never said he was.”

“I know, I just…don’t want you to think he’s, you know, manipulating me, or treating me badly. All of this has been my choice.” I rub my eyes. “I think I am hurting myself, in a way. It’s hard to explain.”

She nods and looks at me sadly. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I know, but I feel like I should. And no matter what, I never want my decisions to hurt you in any way. You’re my priority. And if Robert makes you uncomfortable, I won’t see him anymore.”

“No,” she says, stopping me. “I know, Dad. And I don’t want that, I don’t think. I know how much he means to you, and I know he’s a good guy. It’s just…” She looks out the window. I can tell she’s going to say something big, because she always looks away whenever things get serious. “All this stuff with Robert just really reminds me of before…you know, before Dad got better.” She looks at me again. “You know?”

I nod. “I know.”

Her eyes go red and watery, and I hate the thought that I’m the cause of it. “I just remember you were always doing so much, and even though I was little I knew what was going on. I saw what Dad was like, and I could tell how sad it was making you.” She sniffs. “I just don’t like seeing you like that. Like this. I don’t...I don’t want to see you have to go through that again.” Her eyes well up and her face contorts. “Because it was really hard to watch. I know you don’t think I do, but I remember—"

I pull Amanda in for another hug. “Hey.” I say.

“I remember everything,” she says.

“I’m so sorry, Manda.” I kiss the top of her head. “I’m so sorry we put you through that.” She’s silent, but I can feel her breathing rapidly. “It’s okay. It’s over now. We made it through, and he got better.”

I hear a sniff. “But he’s…but Robert’s not—” She doesn’t finish; she doesn’t have to. I know what she was going to say.

Robert isn’t Alex. She doesn’t know if I can help him. She doesn’t even know if he can be helped. She doesn’t know if Robert has what Alex had; his vitality, his determination, his patience. Frankly, neither do I.

She whispers, “I miss him.”

I reply, “Me, too.”

After some time, I hear her breathing slow, and she backs away.

After clearing her throat, she says, “Just don’t hurt yourself over him anymore. Okay, Pops?”

I smile. In moments like these, I begin to wonder who’s the parent. “Okay.”

She thinks, then adds, “And if he even comes close to hurting you, there’s gonna be some serious hell to pay.”

I nod. “Noted.”

“I’m talking petty theft. Maybe some vandalism. Might even go so far as aggravated assault. ‘Manda don’t mess.”

I laugh. “As your legal guardian, I give you full permission to everything but the latter.”

She gets up from the couch, and before walking to the kitchen, looks me dead in the eye and flatly says, “I can’t make any promises.”

She soon returns with a full package of Oreos and a jar of peanut butter.

“Wanna watch Parent Trap and gorge ourselves ‘til we puke?”

I reach for the Oreos. “God, yes.”

 

Even though I asked him not to, Robert disappears. I can’t say I’m surprised, as he’s done this many times before. I don’t see any signs of him in his house; even his truck has disappeared.

I can only hope he’s doing what he needs to do to recover, and not doing something that will send him any further down the spiral he’s heading into.

He hasn’t contacted me, so I won’t contact him. He probably needs some time to think.

I can’t let my concern for him take over my life, despite how much I want it to.

He probably went somewhere. He’s probably visiting Val.

These are all the things I tell myself when it gets bad, when I’m lying in bed and thinking myself into a state of panic, shaking so hard my teeth begin to chatter. It’s what I tell myself as I’m bent over the toilet, choking down sobs, dry heaving from the nausea.

I hope he’s safe. I hope he’s stable. I hope he’s not dead in a ditch.

It’s a Tuesday. It’s been seven days since Robert and I went to the meeting, and six days since I’ve seen any sign of him.

When I wake up, I look through the window adjacent to his house on the way to the kitchen.

No truck in the driveway.

I sigh and look at my phone, and out of habit, scroll through our messages.

“Movie night tonight?”

“heeeeell yeeessssssss”

“Cool! You pick the movie this time, I’ll get the ice cream.”

“HEEEEEELL YEEEEEEEESSSS”

I smile.

“Dad?”

I turn around to see Amanda staring at me.

“It’s noon. Did you…just wake up?”

I place my hands on my hips. “As a matter of fact, I did. Benefits of working from home.”

She smiles. “Alright, Pops, usually I’d find this sort of behavior endearing, but this is getting old.”

“What do you mean?” I say, frowning.

Amanda crosses her arms and says, “When’s the last time you showered?”

“Amanda Ann, what exactly are you accusing me of?”

She raises her eyebrows at me and hardens her mouth into a stern line.

I lower my gaze. “Thursday.”

Her jaw drops. “ _Five days?_ ”

“I’ve been busy…” I say, unconvincingly.

“No,” she says, “You’re in a funk.”

I feign disgust. “Am not.”

“Are too. Now go take a shower.” She adds, “And call someone. A friend. Someone who doesn’t keep you out all night and encourage poor hygiene. Call Craig.”

I turn and walk towards the shower. “Fine, fine, I’m going.”

 

“If I’d known we were going for a run, I wouldn’t have showered.”

“You know me. I wasn’t gonna let you off easy just ‘cause you’re in a rut. _Especially_ because you’re in a rut. Gotta get those endorphins, bro.”

Craig and I pant side by side as we jog alongside the beach. The heat is blistering, and I’m already regretting calling Craig instead of Mat, who would have just wanted to “chill” and listen to records or something, or Hugo, who probably would have wanted to go to the library, or…hm. Amanda was right. I need to make more friends.

“So, what’s up, Walt? I mean, you’ve barely said a word all day.”

I shake my head. “Nothing, bro. It’s nothing.”

I glance over. Craig holds my gaze, raising his eyebrows and giving me his “are you for real right now?” look that, without fail, breaks me every time.

“Robert stuff,” I say.

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you mind if I ask…?”

“Yeah, no, of course. Um…” We’re at a stoplight, and we jog in place. It feels absurd to be having such a serious conversation while doing something that looks so profoundly ridiculous. “He’s, uh…he’s having a hard time with the whole, you know, ‘sobriety’ thing.”

“Oh man,” Craig replies. “I’m sorry. Especially after…well, you know.”

“Thanks, man. I mean, I’m okay. I just wish he’d talk to me.” The light turns green, and we run. There’s a silence. I can feel him looking at me.

“You sure? You’re looking a little…” He starts. “Look man, are you sure you’re okay?”

I smile and look at him. “No. But I don’t know what else to do.”

In that moment, my vision blurs and goes lopsided, and I suddenly feel like everything around me is spinning. My stomach churns and growls. I can’t tell whether I need to eat or throw up.

I slow down and put my hand on the nearest surface, which happens to be a garbage can. Good enough. I put my other hand on my knee and bend over.

I hear Craig slow. He places a hand on my shoulder and leans down so our faces are level. “Hey, you good?”

I shake my head. “I’ve been really nauseous lately, I think I just need a minute.”

Craig smiles sympathetically. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I dunno.”

 After a moment, he says, “You know what you need?”

“Uh…no?”

He laughs. “Breakfast. Bacon. Eggs. Pancakes.” He claps me on the back. “My treat.”

“It’s two in the afternoon,” I say, laughing.

“All the more reason.”

I’m suddenly remembering why I called Craig. Not just because of the free food, though that is a benefit. He’s known me for years; he knows what happens when I crash and burn, and he knows how to take care of me when I do. Simply put, he’s got my back, and I’ve got his.

“Thanks, bro,” I say, and we continue jogging, albeit at a slower pace, towards the sweet, greasy oblivion that awaits us.

 

It’s good catching up with Craig. Everything with him feels so _easy._ It feels like ages since I’ve been able to relax in a social situation without some sort of anxiety running through my mind, like _Will I say something to set him off?_ and _Does he even enjoy my company?_ The nausea is gone, and for the first time in a week, I’m able to eat without fear of it coming back up.

It’s just Craig. Easy, familiar, minimal-sexual-tension Craig.

As I gnaw on a piece of bacon, he eyes me quizzically.

“What?” I say, mid-chew.

He shrugs. “Nothing, man, it’s just—” He smiles. “You have a type.”

I sigh emphatically. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing, you know. But I mean…” He leans in. “You can’t keep doing stuff on everyone else’s terms, you know?”

I shake my head. “I don’t follow.”

"It’s like this,” he says. “You’re always helping everyone else, right?”

“I guess,” I say. “I’ve never really thought about it that way.”

“Well, it’s true. And I’m just thinking…who’s helping you? Who’s doing stuff on Walter’s terms?”

“Huh.” I mutter. I think he has a point.

“And I’m not saying it’s bad to help people, just…don’t be afraid to ask for help, too.” He smiles warmly. I’m impressed.

“Dude,” I say, “Since when are you so full of sage advice?”

He gestures to me. “Learned from the best, bro.” He sobers, then touches my arm. “For real, though. I’m here, whatever you need. It’s the least I can do.”

I smile. “Thanks, Craig.”

 

Halfway through my fourth (fifth?) piece of bacon (god I’m hungry), I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.

I look at the screen and my stomach drops.

“What is it?” Craig asks.

I clear my throat. “Um.” I look up at Craig. “I think Mary just texted me?”

Craig raises his eyebrows. “What did she say?”

“She says it’s about Robert.”’

 

As I walk to Jim and Kim’s, I look at Mary’s text Messages again.

"You. Me. Jim and Kim’s. 9 pm. It’s about Robert.”

I take a deep breath: in through the nose, out through the mouth.

The pancakes and bacon from earlier today are sitting in my stomach like a ton of bricks. I’m glad Craig got me to eat, and a part of me wishes Mary had never texted me. I could have probably had one of the best days I’ve had in a long time—one with no nausea, no panic attacks, no festering worry and self-pity. I could have pretended that none of this was happening, like Craig and I were still in college, before we drifted apart, before I met Robert, before everything became so sad and complicated.

It’s funny how cyclical time can be. It’s funny how so much has changed, yet most of the time I still feel as helplessly lost as I was 25 years ago. Now, however, it doesn’t feel as terrifying; it just feels pathetic.

I reach the bar. I take one last deep breath, then, I enter.

I haven’t been to Jim and Kim’s for a while, but, unsurprisingly, nothing has changed. I realize I’ve never been here without Robert. I half-expect him to be here, but I know he won’t be. The air of the bar feels different without him. Feels lacking.

After scanning the room, I see Mary seated in a corner booth, twirling a glass of wine and prodding at a basket of onion rings. Her eyes are cast down, and her face is lifeless and blank. My stomach churns, and I find myself wondering what exactly she needs to discuss, what about Robert she could have to tell me. For the thousandth time this week, my mind races through images of Robert in distress, Robert passed out in a pool of his own vomit, Robert unresponsive in a hospital bed, Robert’s lifeless body hanging out of his totaled truck. Robert, dead in a ditch somewhere. Objectively, I know it’s unlikely. Still, it’s all I can do not to bend over and start dry heaving right where I’m standing.

I feel a hand on my elbow. I look over to see Mary, staring at me, gripping my arm.

“Easy, sailor,” she says. “Let’s take a seat.”

I nod. “Okay.”

She guides me to the booth, and the moment we sit down, she shoves the basket of onion rings my way.

“You look like shit,” she says. “You should eat something.”

My stomach flips. “Thanks, but I can’t,” I reply, “Unless you want to see something really ugly in about five minutes.”

She pulls the basket back towards herself and says, “Suit yourself.” She takes a bite of onion ring, then looks me up and down. Her eyebrow furrows, and she looks…sad. She leans in. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

I shake my head. She tosses the half-eaten ring back into the basket. “Shit.” She takes a gulp of her wine, almost finishing it, then mutters again. “Shit.”

“You haven’t seen him either,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Nope. Not since June. Inconsiderate asshole.”

One month? That’s…out of character, even for Robert.

We catch each other’s eyes and stare. We’re thinking the same thing, I can tell. It goes without saying.

Where the hell is he?

Mary finishes her wine and slams the glass on the table. “Look,” she says. “Robert’s done this before. Once. Before we were friends. Actually, it’s how we…” She trails off, then shakes her head. “Anyways. Usually I’d say it’s no cause for concern.”

"But now?” I ask.

“Now?” She gestures towards me. “The state you’re in? I’d say it’s justified.”

I take off my glasses and pinch my nose. I breathe. After a moment’s silence, I say, “What am I gonna do, Mary?”

“Think I called this little meeting because I know?” She sighs. “Look, kid. The thing with Robert is…he doesn’t like it when people try to help. And this whole fix-the-alcoholic, Beauty and the Beast act you’ve been doing? It’s…” she looks down. “I, um…I can’t tell you why.” She smiles and holds up a hand. “Scout’s honor. But, it’s...how do I…” She clears her throat. “It’s just sensitive, alright? And I trust you, kiddo. I know you mean well, but…not everyone does. Do you get what I’m saying?”

I furrow my brow. “You mean there have been other…?”

She nods. “Let’s just say you’re not the first and leave it at that.”

“Who—” I start, but she shoots me a look that tells me not to go there.

“Confidential,” she says. “All I can tell you is that there are shitty people out there who like to exploit vulnerable people. And Robert is…”

“Vulnerable.”

She smiles. “More than you know.” She shakes her head. “Anyways, point is, he’s been hurt. And when that happened, he uh…got bad.” Her voice changes and she takes in a sharp breath. “And luckily, I was there to pick up the pieces.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Dunno. Because I care.” She pauses. “You…you two have a way of worrying people.”

Mary worries about me?

“You worry about me?”

She points her finger at me. “Hey. Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

I smile and raise my hand. “Scout’s honor.”

Everything is slowly starting to make sense. This doesn’t justify his behavior, but it does make it more…understandable. My anger, my anxiety, and my guilt aren’t going to disappear completely anytime soon, but as the night goes on, I can feel them fade into the background.

Mary and I stay at the bar for another hour, swapping stories about anything and everything, but namely, wild nights we’ve had with Robert. At a certain point, I don’t know how, Alex comes up.

“You know,” Mary says gesturing towards me, “All of this? It’s starting to make a lot more sense.”

I nod. “I know. It’s, uh…a little pathetic.”

She shakes her head and says matter of factly, “No, I wouldn’t say that.” After a beat, she says, “I think you and Robert need to have a talk.”

“That is, if I can find him.”

She sighs. “I’ll call him tonight. If I tell him it’s an emergency, I’m sure he’ll answer.” She hesitates, then reaches across the table and places her hand on my arm. “I’ll tell him we miss him, and that he’d better get his ass back here. Alright?”

I smile. “Alright.”

When I get home from the bar, Amanda’s in her pajamas, sitting on the couch, staring into space. When the door opens, she turns.

“Dad?” She says. I walk over to her.

"Hey, what’s up?”

“Um…what’s the date today?”

I look at my phone. “The 19th.”

"So tomorrow’s—” she starts.

I go breathless. “Oh. Right.”

Tomorrow’s the 20th.

 

The day snuck up on me. I knew it was coming, but somehow, I managed to keep telling myself it was sometime far in the distance, sometime more convenient, easier, more…bearable.

The past has a way of sneaking up on you. It invades your life with little notice or warning and permeates every crevice, infects every aspect, all without your knowledge. You can be doing something perfectly mundane, such as eating a piece of toast, and suddenly remember an interaction with perfect clarity. You remember hands and arms snaking around your waist, hot breath on your ear, a chaste kiss and a stolen bite of breakfast.

You can replicate old patterns of behavior over and over again until you remember that he is not Alex, that Alex isn’t here, that Alex is dead and those years, both good and bad, are far, far behind you.

I take another bite of toast and put my head in my free hand. How could I forget?

“Toast again?” Amanda asks.

“Breakfast of champions,” I reply.

 There’s a silence. Amanda walks around the table and puts her chin on my shoulder. I smile.

“One bite,” I say, then reach over and bring the piece of toast over my shoulder. Despite what I said, Amanda takes two.

One hour later, we drive to the cemetery after stopping by Wegman’s to grab flowers and some pre-made tamales. The sky is clear and the air is warm, not unlike the way it was the day that Alex died. It’s the perfect day for a family outing, despite the circumstances. We set up a blanket and a spread of food, flowers, my writing, and Amanda’s photography in front of Alex’s grave. Then, we sit.

“Four years,” I say.

“I know,” Amanda replies. “Feels like forever ago.”

I sigh. It feels like it just happened.

“Do you want to tell him?” I ask.

“Right,” Amanda says as she pulls an envelope out of her bag. She smiles and holds it out in front of her. “Look, dad. I um…I got into Horne!”

I clap and cheer. “That’s right, babe. Our Panda’s gonna be the next Cindy Sherman.”

Amanda shakes her head. “Please,” she says, “There can only be one Cindy Sherman.”

"Fine, fine. She’s gonna be the first Amanda Williams.” I pause. “Well, figuratively speaking.”

“There it is.”

After showing Alex some of Amanda’s photos, she turns to me. “What about you, Pops? Got any stuff you want to show Dad?”

“Well,” I start. “I’m sort of in between projects right now. I just finished editing the third book in a vampire trilogy, so uh…I’m glad to be done with that. As far as writing goes…” I pause. “I dunno yet. Inspiration has been a little tough to come by lately.”

Amanda pats my back. “You’ll get there.”

I smile. “I know. Thanks, Manda.”

After reading some choice passages from Ms. Ambrosia’s Elite Boarding School for Vampire Athletes (I know, I couldn’t convince the author to change the title), Amanda and I dig in to the store-bought tamales. They’re alright, but they have nothing on the ones Alex used to make.

“You should see downtown, Dad,” Amanda says. “It’s like a totally different place. There’s a Wegman’s.”

I laugh. “I know exactly what he’d say.”

“Something about gentrification and white nonsense?”

I smile. “He taught you well.”

“Don’t even get me STARTED on our cul-de-sac.”

“You really are your father’s daughter.”

She gives me the finger guns. “One and only.”

An hour passes. Amanda and I finish our meals, and after taking a short stroll to walk off the food, we decide it’s time to leave. After packing up everything, we each give each other a few minutes alone with Alex. Amanda goes first, and as she kneels at the gravestone, I turn my back and decide to watch the passing cars. As I do so, I swear I see an old red pickup. It could be Robert’s, or it could just be me, desperately wishing it were.

When Amanda finishes, she approaches me with a tap on the shoulder.

"Your turn,” she says. “I’ll be in the car.”

I walk up to Alex’s gravestone, and for a moment, I just look.

ALEXANDER H. WILLIAMS

JULY 25 1976

JULY 20 2014

Loving Husband. Amazing Father. Survivor. Badass. Friend.

I chuckle to myself.

“You’re ridiculous,” I say to him.

I kneel and press my forehead to the headstone, imagining it’s Alex’s face.

“I miss you,” I say in barely a whisper. “I can’t believe it’s been four years, babe.”

I can imagine what he would say. I can practically hear it. “Mmm,” he says. “Me neither. How you holding up?”

I sigh. “You know…” I laugh. “I’m not doing so hot. I’ve been thinking a lot about…before, lately. And there are so many things I wish I could ask you. You were…so strong,” I say, as my eyes begin to water. “I mean, your resilience was so…inspiring. Even when you relapsed, a part of me just knew you would be okay. And you were.” I breathe. In and out. “It’s so unfair. You worked so hard. We were so happy.” I clear my throat. “I wish I’d told you to take the bus. I wish I’d picked you up. I wish I’d been there to warn you. Sometimes I wish…” I’m beginning to break down. It’s been building for weeks. I feel like I can’t breathe. I’m not whispering anymore, but I don’t care. “Sometimes I wish I’d been the one in the driver’s seat…and you were the one at home with Amanda, because you…you fought so hard to be here, and you didn’t deserve…you deserve to be here. Not me, okay?” I can barely speak. “Not me.”

I break down into sobs and start to shake. Then, I begin to convulse. My stomach tightens, and I strain to take a breath. It’s coming. I feel a start in my stomach, and it works its way up to my chest, throat, mouth. I retch, but nothing comes out. Again, I retch. Nothing. Amidst the heaving, I cough a dry, barking cough and frantically attempt to wipe the tears from my face. I hear pounding footsteps and attempt to hold back this display, but my body has taken over.

'Alex, I—” I say. “I can’t—” I’m cut off by myself, as I retch for a third time and finally cough out the acid that has been building in my throat.

The crying gets worse. It hurts. My throat, my chest, my stomach. Everything hurts.

I hear a gruff, raspy voice call out, but it sounds like it’s being filtered through layers of gauze. It’s distant, it’s not here, it’s from somewhere else. It’s what I wish I were hearing. “Walter,” it says.

Then, I feel a hand slide onto my back.

Then, I feel a body kneeling next to me.

“Hey,” the voice says, and the hand slides up and down my back, applying a comforting pressure. I retch again, but nothing comes up this time. Another hand is on my head now, pushing loose strands of hair off my face, stroking the top of my head. “Hey,” the voice says. “You’re alright. You’re alright.” That’s not what Alex would say. He’d whisper a string of “babys” and hushes and “I’ve got you, babe. I’ve got you.” I smell rust and motor oil. I smell cigarettes. I smell something close to home, but not quite.

The pressure of physical contact and the slow, steady movement with which I’m being touched is enough to slow my breathing slightly, and it’s enough to permit me to look up. I already know who it is, but I won’t believe it until I see it in front of me.

It’s Robert, real and in front of me. I look at his face. He looks terrified.

Immediately upon making eye contact, I crumple into him, and he catches me. I grip his arm, and he pulls me even closer, holding the back of my head with his hand. We move and press into each other, gripping tighter and tighter, even though we’re already as close as two people can get. He grips my hair slightly, and I feel his breath on the crown of my head.

He sighs. “I’m—” He starts. Then I feel him slowly, deliberately push the hair off my forehead and press a kiss into my skin. After a moment he whispers, “I’m sorry.” He pulls me tighter, then more quietly, he whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Then, he holds me. Neither of us say anything more. He just holds me until my breathing slows and the coughing stops. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel safe. I feel steady.

When I feel like I can breathe again, I pat Robert on the shoulder and move away slightly. I back away enough to see his face, but still maintain physical contact.

"It’s good to see you,” I say.

He nods. “You, too.”

"I was worried.”

He looks away and says barely above a whisper, “I know.” He clears his throat. “I, uh…I was visiting Val.”

I smile. “I figured.”

“Yeah, um,” He looks back at me with concern. “Mary told me you’re…she told me she missed me. So…” he pauses. “I’m here.”

“How did you…?”

“Oh,” he says. “I’m just visiting the missus. Yesterday was…” He clears his throat. “The day she died. That’s why I was up. In New York.” He pauses. “Glad I showed up when I did.”

I smile. Happy coincidence. “Me too. I’m, um…” My smile begins to waver, and I feel my eyes watering. “Robert I’m…I’m not doing very well.”

Robert’s brow furrows, and he looks so horribly…heartbroken.

He puts his hand on my cheek and, with some effort, looks directly into my eyes.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m here now.” He swallows, and after another moment, he continues. “Remember that thing you said to me?”

“What thing?”

“In the car?”

I remember. I nod.

“Well…It meant…a lot.” His eyes are watery. He looks like he wants to do something, but I don’t know what. “Anyways.” He takes in a sharp breath. “I want you to know that…I feel that way too. I’m, uh…I’m here. As long as you want me around.”

Then, he pulls me in for another hug, and says one last thing. “I’m not gonna disappear again.” He strokes my hair, and I grip him tighter. “Promise.”

After some time, Robert and I stand up and exit the cemetery. When we reach the parking lot, I see Amanda sitting on the hood of our car.

“You ready?” She says.

I nod. “Oh, yeah.”

Before entering the car, I hear Robert give me a, “Hey.”

I turn. “What’s up?”

He leans against his ajar door. “If you need anything, tonight or…”

I smile. “I’ll give you a call.”

He smiles, too. “Good.”

When I get in the car, Amanda says, “He’s back.”

I turn the key in the ignition.

“He’s back.”

 

It’s 10 PM. Amanda’s gone to her room; she always goes to bed early on days like this. The rest of the day went by relatively without incident, but now that I’m in bed, alone, trying desperately to fall asleep, I can feel the panic starting to set in again.

I need to tell him.

I reach over to my bedside table pick up my phone. I dial Robert’s number.

He picks up. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey, um…can you—”

“I’ll be right over,” he says, then immediately hangs up.

Within a minute, I hear a knock on the door. When I answer, Robert hovers in the doorway, holding something behind his back.

“I uh…” Sheepishly, he brings his arm around and holds it out in front of me. He’s holding a bottle of Canada Dry. “Cures all ills,” he mutters.

I chuckle and take the bottle. “Thank you. This is…actually, exactly what I needed.”

He chuckles a bit, too. “Then I’m glad I brought it.”

There’s a silence. “So,” I say. I gesture to the couch. “Sit?”

He nods obediently. “Will do.”

He sits, but I don’t move. I just stare at him, frozen.

“…Walter?”

“Right,” I say. I sigh. I sit.

He’s looking at me so expectantly. How do I tell him?

“Robert?” I ask.

“Yes?”

I pause.

“Have I ever told you about Alex?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, sorry for the delay on this chapter! My life like exploded and then it was Pride in the cities so I was like insanely busy celebrating with my friends. (BTW, happy Pride everyone <3) Also, this chapter was pretty tough to write, so it took me a bit longer than usual.  
> Anyways, thank you as always for your feedback and support! I know things seem a little glum right now, but in my experience, that's how recovery works; shit's gotta get bad before it gets better. And it will <3


	6. Step 6 - Picking Up The Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in years, Walter talks about Alex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for discussion of addiction, references to suicide and mental illness.

I don’t talk about Alex. At least, not in that way. Occasionally, I’ll bring up a story from our college days or the years after he recovered, and when I speak about him, I speak in vague, amber-hued terms. I say what is convenient. I talk about what a great father he was to Amanda and how he made playing the bad cop look easy, which I only realized after he was gone. I talk about how much I miss his food—the tamales and the fried plantains and, God, if you thought he was a good cook, you should have met his sister. I talk about the things everyone misses and remembers: his natural charisma and the way he could break anyone out of their shell, his unyielding optimism, his boyish smile and kind eyes.

I avoid the inexplicable: the bad things, and the things that would hurt too much if I tried to put words to them. Everyone who matters already knows, and those who don’t know don’t need to. At least, that was the case, until Robert happened. Now, he’s sat in front of me, the first person I’ve felt anything for in god knows how long, and he knows next to nothing. He doesn’t know why I know what he’s going through. He doesn’t know my life isn’t perfect. He doesn’t know I’m just as much of a disaster as he is.

 

“Have I ever told you about Alex?”

I haven’t talked about it, really talked about it, in years.

Robert shakes his head. “I know a little, but you never…no.”

I nod.

“Okay, well…” How do I put this delicately? “Um…you know, one time you told me that I have a perfect life, that I don’t understand what you’re dealing with, and…” Robert looks away. I reach out to him and touch his leg. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, you didn’t know. But…”

“It’s not.” He says.

“Yeah.”

He nods and his mouth twitches, like he’s trying to smile. “Figured,” he says, matter of factly. After a moment, I see his hand twitch, then move, working its way towards mine. It reaches its destination, and I watch his pinky finger slowly move until it brushes my thumb. Then, his other fingers spread until his hand rests lightly over mine, his touch growing heavier and firmer over time, as though he's testing something.

He sighs, then looks me in the eye. “Tell me,” he says. “I won’t run.” He gives me a short, sad smile, and my chest tightens. The small, simple physical contact and the look on his face is so strangely reassuring. I feel like I’m going to cave in on myself. I don’t know if I can trust anything he does right now, but I want to.

I take a deep breath and reach my thumb up to stroke his. “I know.”

He looks at his hand and smirks, then he leans in slightly and says, “Thanks,” with that slight twinge of irony he always uses. I missed that.

I smile and lean in to meet him. “Don’t mention it.”

After the moment settles, I start to slide my hand away. I don’t know why. Robert doesn’t stop me; he simply clears his throat and folds his arms, and I fold my hands in my lap in turn.

“So, Alex…” I laugh. Again, I’m not sure why. I feel sick to my stomach, but I swallow and try to push the feeling down. “Robert, I um…I should start by telling you that this is the first time I’ve talked about any of this since…” I trail off. “Actually…I don’t remember the last time. I don’t think…I mean Craig knows some of it, and Amanda does, too, but…” I take another deep breath. “Nobody really knows the whole story. And, um, I figured…of all the people I should tell…you deserve to know the most.

Robert’s face contorts with something resembling disbelief, and I know what he’s thinking. _Why?_ But he says nothing.

“Anyways…Before he passed, Alex and I had a great marriage, and I won’t deny that. I mean, I got so, so lucky. I know that. He was an amazing father to Amanda, and a great husband, and, um…he was my best friend. Just an incredible person. Actually, I think you two would have really gotten along.” Robert raises his eyebrows. “I mean, you should have seen him in action. He was…unpredictable. To say the least.”

He smirks. “So…he was wild, huh?” I laugh. That’s a word for it. “Do tell.”

I laugh. “Oh man…well, okay. Take the first time we met. It was my freshman year. I showed up to this party one of my English buddies invited me to, and it was, I kid you not, dead quiet. There were maybe ten other people there, and no one was talking. They all just sat in the living room, sipping wine, and listening to Mazzy Star, totally dead-faced.”

“Jesus.”

“Right? I didn’t know what to do. Craig was out of town that weekend, and he’s the one who always took me to parties, so it was pretty much a miracle I even left the dorm. And, I mean, it would have been rude to bail after being there for two minutes. So, I scanned the room, and I saw this really cute guy I’d never seen before, and he was kind of hanging back from everyone else, drinking merlot straight out of the bottle, and I thought, yeah, I’m gonna sit next to him. Immediately after I sat, he passed me the wine and said, ‘I’m Alex, and you’re gonna drink this.’ Me being the person I am, I asked him ‘All of it?’, and he just nodded and pushed the bottle towards my face. And, well, you know…I have a very hard time saying no to attractive men.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I laugh. “Yeah, it’s…a problem. Anyways. I complied because, well, who wouldn’t. When I passed it back to him, he just said, ‘Watch this,’ then got up, put on a Prince record, and told everyone, ‘Alright, assholes, we’re playing Spin the Bottle’. And, I mean…this was a room full of English majors, so chances are none of us had ever played it before. I mean, I know I hadn’t, I was a very repressed high schooler.”

I pause. I think I’m getting off track.

“I’m, um…this is probably gonna take a while,” I say, slightly embarrassed.

Robert folds his arms and grins. “No, by all means.”

“You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head. “Nah.”

I smile. “Good. I uh…I know can get a little long-winded sometimes. So…that’s good.” Robert smiles even wider, clearly taking pleasure in my discomfort. I clear my throat. “What was I saying?”

“Repressed teenager?”

“Right. I was very much a virgin, and a lightweight. So by the time the needle hit the record, I was very drunk and very stressed out, and very eager to impress this handsome stranger. But, when we set the rules of the game, someone said that if the bottle landed on someone of the same gender, you would have to spin again. Of course, I thought it was bullshit, but I wasn’t gonna say anything. I mean, I was a freshman surrounded by strangers, and I’d only just come out to Craig.

“Then, after a couple turns and a lot of pretending to enjoy kissing women, I, of course, landed on Alex. And without missing a beat, he just said, ‘let’s make this seven minutes in heaven,’ then he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the coat closet.” I pause. “He didn’t kiss me, though. He just asked me, ‘What’s your name?’ and I told him it’s Walter. Then he said, ‘How long have you known?’

“This confused the hell out of me. When I asked him what he meant, he said, ‘I didn’t have to find out, my mom told me when I was 13. She said, ‘Alex, just tell us you like boys so we can all move on with our lives,’” I laugh a little. I haven’t heard that story in a while. “Then he said, ‘So, how long have you known?’

"I didn’t know what to say. I asked him how he knew I was gay, and he told me he could just tell because of his ‘sixth sense’. So, I told him I didn’t know for sure, that I didn’t even know in that moment if I was or wasn’t, which was the truth. He didn’t press me anymore. Instead, he asked if I wanted to get out of there, and then we left the party. Then, once we were outside, we just…walked.

“At first, he did all the talking, but at a certain point, I noticed that I suddenly couldn’t shut up. In a matter of hours, I wound up telling this complete stranger my life story, but somehow…from the moment he passed that bottle to me, he felt incredibly familiar.

“At the end of the night, we found ourselves at this abandoned warehouse on the edge of town, and somehow, he convinced me to climb up to the roof with him. I don’t know what the hell possessed me—” I pause. “Well, no, I do. See, Alex was…very charming. And he made me feel so damn special, you know? Like in that moment, I was the only thing that mattered to him. And that was the first time I really felt that. So, of course, I agreed to do this very dangerous thing.

“It was maybe 4AM when we finally got to the roof, and we’d both sobered up a bit. And, um, I’ve never told anyone this, but…” I sigh. “At that moment he, um…he turned to me and he said, ‘Walter, if I hadn’t met you tonight, I’d probably be dead, or worse.’

“Then it was his turn to tell his story, and he told me…” I look into Robert’s eyes and take a deep breath. “He told me he was an alcoholic.”

With those words, Robert’s face falls.

“He told me that he’d been sober for a while, and then that night, he relapsed. And when he handed that bottle to me, I didn’t realize…he was asking me to stop him, because he couldn’t stop himself. Then, for the first time all night, we both got very, very quiet, and we just…watched the world below. It was this bizarre moment of clarity, and I realized that everything that happened that night brought me there, that what was happening wasn’t just random, that it was special somehow, because...it brought two lonely people together at the exact moment they needed it.”

Robert almost smiles, but not quite. He looks away from me, and we both fall silent. In the quiet, I remember the bottle of ginger ale now growing lukewarm in my left hand, and I decide to fill the space by taking a drink. As I drink from the bottle, I can feel Robert watching me, though I’m sure he’s pretending not to be. I finish my drink and look back at him, and for a moment, we’re silent.

I don’t know why I decided to tell this story of all stories. It’s a deviation from the matter at hand. Maybe I just want Robert to see Alex the way I saw him. Or, maybe I want him to see himself in Alex, kind, uninhibited Alex, see what drew me to him, to both of them. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just reminiscing aimlessly.

Maybe I’m putting of the next part, because the next part feels too close to the gut of what’s happening to Robert now, and as far as stories go, it’s significantly harder to tell.

I swallow. “Anyways,” I continue, “After college, we got married, then we got…well, Amanda. You know, when we first started out, I would worry myself sick over him, literally.  But then the years passed without any incident, and he seemed like he was doing better, so I worried less and less, and then I just…stopped. I stopped looking for signs, I stopped checking in. I…I got comfortable.

“Then, when Amanda was about four years old, we found out that Alex’s mom had pancreatic cancer, and, um…within a month, she was gone. And it hit him…so hard. His mom was his everything, and she supported him—us-- through everything, and then she was just…gone.”

Robert doesn’t interject with a “sorry,”; instead, he simply looks down and nods. In moments like this, when my emotions are already frayed, I appreciate his reticence.

“After a few months, everything seemed to go back to normal. He was good at hiding his grief, so everything just kind of…snuck in under the radar. I just thought he was keeping busy. He’d say he was going to book club, or visiting his sister, or going for a walk. Stuff like that.

“Then, one night, he told me he was going to see his sister, that he’d come back before 11, but he never did. When I called Mari, she told me that he never came over that night. Then, she told me she hadn’t seen him since the funeral.  We didn’t have cell phones or anything back then, so I couldn’t call him, and I didn’t know where he was, and it was…” I sigh. I haven’t relived this in a while, but the pang feels familiar. “He finally showed around 1 in the morning, and right when he walked in, I could tell he’d been drinking. And not just casually, I mean, really drinking, to the point where he couldn’t stand. He looked so distant, so…ill. He was crying, and his clothes were covered in...” I stop. Robert’s eyes have adopted a strange, glassy look.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is this too much for you?”

He shakes his head. “No. Keep going.”

I comply. “He was getting sick everywhere, and he was incredibly pale, and cold, so I took him to the bathroom and laid him down in the bathtub, and just let the water run. After he…you know, got most of it out…that’s when he told me everything. He told me that there wasn’t a moment of the past months where he was sober, and that…hurt. Because I should have seen it. I should have been able to tell. What kind of person can’t tell that his own partner is relapsing? Why did he have to nearly die to make me notice?”

There is a silence. I’m choking back tears now, but it has little effect. I take one deep breath, then another.

I look to Robert’s eyes as hard as I can. “But…” I start, “It wasn’t my fault. I know that now.”

Robert coughs, and still looking down, he says, “It was his.” He looks so haggard, so tired. His words surprise me.

“No,” I say. “It wasn’t his fault either.” I pause. “It was the thing inside him.”

For the first time in minutes, Robert’s eyes meet mine. They’re red and watery. He says nothing; I don’t think he can. As I continue speaking, I, too, find it difficult. For the first time, I’m putting words to what I’ve been trying to get through to Robert, I’m putting words to all of it, everything. The once parallel lines of the past and the present are converging in on this one moment, and I want to get it right, because if I don’t…I don’t want to think about what will happen, then.

“He was infected with something…beyond his control. And for years, he hated himself, because he thought it was a part of him. But it wasn’t. It was something that was done to him. It was a cancer. And he lived with it his entire life. But it didn’t kill him, and it didn’t define him. Because he was strong. Even when he relapsed, even when he almost died, he was good, and he was strong. And when he realized that, when he understood that he wasn’t just built like that, that he was struggling with a legitimate illness, he…he flourished.

I see Robert look down again, becoming distant. “Robert,” I say to him. “Look at me.”

He breathes in and swallows, and as he looks at me, his cheeks shining wet through his stubble, I see the truth of his fragility. “Do you know what I’m trying to say to you?” He shakes his head. Tentatively, I reach my hand out to him, then place it on his cheek, wiping his tears with my thumb. “I know what you’re going through, okay?” I bring my other hand to his face. “It’s the thing inside you.” He shakes his head, and suddenly, his face contorts, and for the first time, I see Robert cry, unconcealed.

When he goes down, so do I.

“It’s not your fault,” I say. His head dips. “It’s not your fault,” I repeat, and then my arms are around him, and despite the circumstances, I am so glad to be holding him. I’m glad to have him safe and here, hearing what I’ve been trying to tell him without words for months.

“I’m sorry I pushed you,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry I pushed you away,” he replies.

After a moment, I tell him, “You’re a good man.” I breathe him in. “You owe it to yourself to recover.”

I feel Robert take a deep breath. “So do you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, it's been a while. I had to take a brief hiatus because life happened, but I'm hoping that this chapter will mark a return. I apologize for the delay!  
> I can't promise that I will be able to update this fic as regularly as I used to, but I will say that I have not abandoned it, and am committed to finishing it. I love this story, and am so excited to show you all where it's going! Much love <3


	7. Step 7 - Making Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert and Walter put words to the thing that's been building between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for discussions of mental illness and unhealthy relationships.

“So do you.”

Those words send a shudder through my body. I’m still holding onto Robert, and I grip his shirt tighter. I breathe deeply, attempting to gain some control over myself, to still the thing that’s building inside me.

Robert, too, pulls me tighter, and after a moment’s silence, mutters, “Don’t hold back on my account.”

Then, the levee breaks. Without words, I begin to sob. “I don’t—” I say several times. “I don’t—” and Robert cuts me off with a, “Hey,” his go-to word of comfort. I just want to tell him—I don’t know how to recover.

Everything these past few months has felt so much more palpable than it used to, and as I sit here, crying into Robert’s arms for the second time today, I feel like an exposed nerve. I think I’ve been feeling this way for a while, but now, today, on the anniversary of Alex’s death, it feels particularly potent. I was at my tipping point, and those words were the thing to push me over.

I haven’t recovered. Four years, and I haven’t recovered. I thought I had, but I’ve been lying to myself. I’ve gone dormant, numbed myself into a comfortable pattern and distracted myself. Before Alex’s death, I was alive, vibrant, vital. When he passed, I hid myself away from the world, I avoided anything that would expose my vulnerability. I didn’t leave the house, I didn’t make friends. I relied on my own daughter for emotional support.

And then we moved, and I met Robert.

Robert reminded me I was alive. He made me feel singular, trusted. The night he confided in me for the first time, I felt something inside me break. I hurt for him the way I hurt for Alex, and the past came rushing upon me as though no time had gone by. I woke up from a four year long self-imposed exile, and the exhilaration of new love collided head-on with the inexplicable grief that came from losing my first, as fresh as it was the day he died.

One part of me thought: If I can fix Robert, I can fix this feeling inside of me.

The other part thought: How dare you forget Alex like this?

Either way, it was self-sabotage.

There’s so much feeling to disentangle, four years’ worth, and I don’t know where to start.

As I shake in Robert’s arms, I say, “There’s so much,” and he repeats his little, “Hey.”

I focus on my breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth.

I take stock of my surroundings. Hands: gripping something, the waffle-knit texture of Robert’s shirt. Hair: pulling against my forehead, tugged slightly by Robert’s fingers as he strokes the top of my head. Glasses: pressing into my face, smashed into Robert’s shoulder. Body: surrounded by someone else’s, a tight pressure, a cathartic release.

The shaking subsides, and my breathing gradually slows. I sigh.

Robert strokes my hair again. “Okay?”

I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

“Okay.”

I feel a hand brush the side of my face. With one finger, Robert lifts my chin and brings my head up. With his other hand, he pushes my glasses up on my nose, then pulls his sleeve over his thumb and gingerly wipes the tears from my face. The gesture is paternal and sweet; it’s the most tender behavior I’ve seen him exhibit. Because he’s Robert, our eyes do not meet, and once he’s finished, he clears his throat and gives a simple, “There.” I can’t help but smile. My arms are still around him, albeit loosely. I absentmindedly stroke his back with my thumb once or twice, as a “thank you.” Then, we pull away.

“So, listen…” he starts. “You, uh…you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I just wanna tell you…I wanna explain myself.”

I nod.

“When I left last week, I…I wasn’t planning on coming back. For a while.”

My stomach drops.

“And it’s not because…look. It’s not because I was mad at you. Okay? So, don’t think that it was. It was…because you didn’t trust me. And I thought, you know, ‘Who does he think I am?’”

“Robert—” I start.

“No, don’t.” He interjects. “No, I mean, you don’t have to—I’m not—ugh.” He runs his hand through his hair and ruffles it aggressively, as though he’s trying to shake something out of it. “I suck at this. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “Take your time.”

“That’s just it—” he starts, then cuts himself off. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Point is, you only saw the person I led you to believe I was—an asshole, a con man. Because despite your miraculous belief in me, I’ve done very little to show you how I feel. So of course, you assumed the worst. Because I’m…” he trails off.

I wait, but he says nothing. So, I ask him, “What?”

“I’m bad for you.”

I open my mouth but think better of it. He continues, “That’s why I left, because I thought…I thought you were better off.” He pauses. “I know it’s dumb, I just…didn’t want to hurt you anymore.

“So, I went to New York, crashed with Val. And it was…good. To see her, see how she operates, you know…she’s a lot like her mother, and nothing…Well. My point.

“Last night, Mary called. Told me you met up.”

Shit. I forgot about that.

“She said…you looked rough. That it scared her. And she told me to get my ass back to Maple Bay. And I just…knew. I knew I fucked up. And I feel like a goddamn idiot, because I thought I was doing something good, and instead I…” He looks up at me for the first time in a while. “I did exactly what I didn’t wanna do.

“When I saw you today, back there, when you were…at the cemetery? It was fuckin’ scary.” He breathes. “You scared me.”

Instinctively, without thinking, I say, “I’m sorry.”

Robert shakes his head and almost smiles. Then, suddenly, he’s reaching forward, and he grabs me by the shoulders and looks me dead in the eye. “You don't need to be sorry. Truth is, I should have seen it coming. I knew. I knew what you were doing. You do everything for me,” he pauses. “What have I done for you?”

I think. I shake my head. “You’ve done so much for me, Robert, you…you helped me today, and you listen to me even though you have no reason to, and you bought me ginger ale, and…” I sigh. “You’re just you.”

Robert sighs as well. “Compared to the list of things you’ve done for me, that’s…it doesn’t make me look so good. Or, feel good. Look, the truth is, I treat you like shit, and…it’s gotta stop. ‘Cause, honestly, you’re the first person I’ve met in a long time whose made me feel like I’m even…capable of being better.” He pauses. “And…I see what I’m doing to you, and I don’t like it.”

I don’t know what to say. “Robert, it’s not…all because of you. I mean, there’s a lot going on right now, that I don’t even know how to…” I let out an exasperated sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. My head hurts, and I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of thinking about it. I wish this could be easier.

“But I’m…making it worse.” He pauses. “Am I?”

I nod. “Sort of, I mean, when you leave, I…yes.” He nods, as though that’s what he was waiting to hear. “It’s…not all you though.” I don’t know if I’m ready to say all of this, but at this point, I don’t know if it can wait any longer.

“Can I be honest with you?”

Robert smiles. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

I smile a little, too, if only to humor him. “No, this is…I’m just preparing myself because once I say this, there’s…not really going to be any going back.”

He sobers up and considers for a moment. “I said I wouldn’t run, and I meant it.”

“Okay,” I say, then the words just…go.

“Um…here’s the thing. I’ve…in the past, I’ve been known to maybe, I don’t know…fixate? For lack of a better word. And, the thing is, Robert…you’re the first person I’ve felt anything for since Alex, and Alex was the first. And I loved him so much…so much that it physically pained me, and when I worried about him, I worried myself to the point of…well,” I gesture to myself. “The thing is, I don’t experience anything lightly, and it’s been a serious problem in the past. After Alex died, I shut down completely. And then…I met you. And I felt something. And then…I felt everything. You became the most important thing in my life, and it’s like…I didn’t stop it, and I didn’t want to, because it just felt so goddamn good to feel. So I didn’t listen to myself, or anyone, not even my own daughter, because…I just wanted to say ‘fuck it’ for once, let myself lose control. And um…I did. And then last week, when you left…it’s like my entire world was ripped away from me. And…that shouldn’t be the case.”

“…I still shouldn’t’ve left.”

“No,” I admit, “At least, not without a heads up. But the way I reacted? I—I don’t think it’s your fault, just your fault. I dropped everything for you, I made excuses for you and enabled you and obsessed over you. I made your needs my own, and you came to expect that, and we just kept going through this cycle and we dragged each other into this…mess. And I think it worked for a while, until…”

“It didn’t.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”

There’s a long silence, then Robert speaks up. “Walt…It’s not your job to fix it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…you talk like it’s your job, like it’s just on you still, and…it’s not. You’ve been carrying the both of us, and it’s not fair. I…” He pauses and turns to me suddenly, his disposition shifted. “You know what?” He asks.

“What?” I say.

“I’m gonna take a page from your book, because I don’t think we can un-fuck this by ourselves. It’s like, we’re functioning as one unit, and if we were a person…we wouldn’t be able to do it alone.”

As he speaks, I can’t help but feel a swelling heat in my stomach, and my face spreads into a grin. Why hadn’t I thought of it that way?

“Are you saying,” I say, “We need to reach out for help?”

Robert clears his throat, and I can see traces of embarrassment creeping onto his face. “Uh…yeah. That’s exactly what I’m saying. I think…you need real, professional help. And…” He looks down and mutters a quick “Shit,” before saying, “And I do too.”

At this point, I’m practically beaming with pride. “Robert,” I say, staring him down-point blank.

He raises his eyebrows, looking at me with something resembling terror. “Yeah?”

“I think you’ve come a lot farther than you realize.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Don’t make me blush,” he says, his voice dripping with irony, but I know him well enough to see that, beneath all of that, he’s making a genuine statement.

“No, I mean it,” I say. “Despite everything that’s going on…I think you need to give yourself more credit.”

“Nah,” he says. “The credit’s yours. I didn’t do shit. But still…thanks.” He pauses. “I mean it.”

I smile and begin to say, “You’re welcome,” when I’m interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching from the hallway. Robert looks above my head and says, “Oh, uh…hey.”

I turn to see Amanda. She’s standing just inside of the room, wearing her purple pajamas and holding an empty glass. “Oh, hey kiddo,” I say.

Her eyebrow is cocked. “Hello dad…” she starts, “…and Robert…”

“Yeah,” Robert says. “…Sup.”

Amanda nods. “Getting water.”

Robert nods as well. “Cool.”

I look back and forth between the two of them as they nod at each other, silently, for much longer than is comfortable.

Amanda finally clears her throat, ending the silence. “Well. This was fun,” she says, then abruptly turns and speeds into the kitchen.

“Good kid,” Robert says.

I can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Robert says.

I shake my head, still laughing. “Nothing.”

Robert begins to smile. “Tell me.”

I’m laughing harder now. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

“What?” Robert says again, and as he does, he begins to laugh, too.

“It’s just—” I start, “You two should really spend some time together. I think you have a lot in common.”

“How so?” He says.

“You’re both painfully awkward.”

Robert chuckles. “Shut up,” he says, swatting me playfully on the arm. “You raised her.”

“No, no,” I say, “That’s all Alex.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

The levity is welcome, and as I laugh with Robert for the first time in what feels like forever, I get the sneaking suspicion that despite everything that’s happened, we’re going to be okay.

 

After another ten or fifteen minutes of idle chatter, the night winds to a close. Already, I feel as though a mounting pressure has been lifted, that the conversation is coming easier.

As we both hover in the doorway, waiting to say goodbye, I ask Robert, “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies. “I suppose it’d be good to have a plan.”

“Probably,” I tease.

He laughs a little. “Yeah…” he says, then sobers. “I have thought about…you know, the whole ‘AA’ thing.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, and um…I want you to know that I don’t have a problem with support groups, you know, per se, it’s just…that one in particular.”

“Yeah um…I inferred that.”

He shakes his head. “It’s more complicated than…let’s just say I have a history, one that…you should probably know.”

I nod. “You can tell me.”

“No, I…” he says, leaning against the door. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it yet. You know?”

“Of course.”

"But I want to be. I will be.”

I smile. “Okay.”

After a moment of silence, he says, “Anyways, when I come up with a plan, you’ll be the first to know,” and he reaches for the doorknob.

“Same goes to you.”

He nods and pulls the door open, and with a small wave over the shoulder, says, “’Night.”

“Goodnight,” I reply, and reach to close the door.

Just before the door is shut, I hear a, “Wait!” from the other side. When I open it again, Robert is running back up the concrete steps just outside.

“Um,” he starts, and it seems as though he hasn’t quite thought about what he would say after that. “That thing you said, you know…I don’t know why you give as much of a shit about me as you do, ‘cause frankly, I don’t deserve it, but…thanks. For saying it.” He pauses. “You know I feel the same way, right?”

My chest clenches and my mouth goes dry. At a loss for words, I mutter, “I—I, uh…no. Well,” I pause, “I guess now I do.”

Robert nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Good. Cool.” He hesitates and looks like he’s about to say something else, then, abruptly, he says, “Goodnight,” and turns on his heel. As he makes a hasty retreat to his own house, I’m frozen, slightly incredulous, though maybe I shouldn’t be. He’s confessed his feelings for me a small handful of times, why should this one feel any different?

I’m not sure. Only that it feels different, less like an excuse or a prelude to another statement, and more like its own, self-contained moment.

Despite everything, the week I’ve had, the emotional exhaustion of this day, I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

 

I stand before a set of sliding glass doors, staring ahead of me.

Today’s the day. There’s no turning back now.

It’s been three days since Robert and I had our conversation.

Today, I called him, because I have a plan.

Professional help is what I need, so it’s what I’ll get.

Still, I really hate hospitals.

I text Robert, “I’m going in.”

He replies, “same”. Across town, he’s meeting Mary for coffee, and if I know anything about the two of them, I know he’s going to get a well-deserved earful.

I hesitate, say, “Good luck,” then put my phone in my back pocket.

I walk through the doors, up a stairway, and through a corridor until I reach the doorway to a dimly-lit room with a desk on the far right-hand side. Above the door, a sign reads, “Behavioral and Mental Health”.

As I take a deep breath, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and read a text that says, “see you on the other side, soldier”.

I laugh to myself and mutter, “See you on the other side,” then step over the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This was a tough chapter to write, but I'm glad it's out there.  
> I'm aware this fic has been pretty conversation-heavy so far, but do not fret! I have many things planned for upcoming chapters ;)  
> Shout out to my dear friend Maggie for helping me to edit/restructure this thing-- your help was invaluable!


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